Page 26 of Legacy of Roses

“Thank you, Madam.” Dimitri bowed over her hand. “And thank you for an excellent meal. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed one so much.”

She immediately went pink with pleasure and assured him she would pass on his compliment to her cook.

“And perhaps you could advise me, sir.” Dimitri turned to Blythe’s father. “I’m sure I’ll be looking for a proper cooked meal again soon. Could you recommend Thebarton’s best inn—at least in regards to their dining room?”

“You’re always welcome here!” Blythe cried. “You could come every meal if you like! You don’t want to be eating with just anybody at an inn.”

Dimitri hesitated for a moment, unsure how to answer, and her father gave her a quelling look. She immediately blushed scarlet and stepped back.

“Excuse the enthusiasm of my daughter,” he said. “Although of course we would be pleased to see you anytime. But for an excellent table, I can highly recommend the Mortar and Pestle. You must have passed it on your way in.”

Dimitri nodded, relieved. He remembered the establishment because he’d noted its size on his way past. It was obviously well patronized by locals and visitors alike, and it was on his side of town as well. He could already envision Blythe’s enthusiasm becoming a problem, and he was relieved he would be able to visit the inn without having to pass through the town square.

With more thanks, he tried to escape out the door, but Blythe’s mother managed to seize his hands a final time. Dropping her voice, she murmured, “Please do excuse ourBlythe. It’s rare to have new residents in Thebarton—at least at our level. You’ll understand.”

She fixed him with a look, and he murmured something vague as he pulled his hand free. He didn’t wish to be rude after their generous hospitality, but he couldn’t help bristling at her words. He could only imagine Rosalie and her family were the sort of people they considered below their level.

When he finally escaped out into the square, he strode off toward the store Blythe had indicated. Her mother’s final words reminded him of his first meeting with Blythe. Rosalie had interrupted them, and he thought he remembered a coldness in the greeting between her and the other girls, although he hadn’t taken much note of it at the time.

Was she looked down on by the others? Was that all there was to the awkwardness of the Fosters when he had brought up Rosalie’s family during the meal?

As usual, he had the distinct sensation he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle—one that was familiar to everyone but him. He was almost tempted to forget the store and go straight to the Mortar and Pestle. But if he wanted to connect with other locals—old-timers who knew everything that had ever happened in the town—it was the wrong time. He was too late now for the midday crowd, and too early for the evening patrons. Besides, he really was in urgent need of supplies.

Reluctantly he accepted he would have to visit the Mortar and Pestle another time and instead loaded himself up with supplies from the store. Even without dropping the Foster name, the store clerk was cheerful and helpful, and he soon had as much as he could carry. It would be a heavy load on the return walk but worth it given how depleted his pack had become.

He was just grateful some Glandorian coin had been left among his mother’s papers. He didn’t know how much she had taken with her when she fled, but it must have been far morethan he ever suspected. The remainder would be more than enough to sustain him for a while at least—hopefully for long enough to find some answers.

Thoughts of his mother consumed him as he walked back to the manor. Sometimes the newness of his experiences in Glandore made him forget all about her, but that only made the ache sharper when it inevitably reappeared. Worse, he wasn’t even sure if the pain came from grief at her loss or anger at what felt like her betrayal.

How could she have taken him away from his family and his heritage—choosing a life away from his birth Legacy without ever giving him a choice? She hadn’t even told him the truth after he became an adult. Had she been afraid that if she told him, he would leave her alone to return to Glandore? He would never know now.

Back at the manor, he prowled restlessly through some of the rooms he had been ignoring. In a small sitting room hidden on the second floor, he was stopped short by a portrait that took his breath away. He had no memories of his mother so young, but she was easily recognizable.

The golden-haired, blue-eyed young woman twirling in a soft pink dress was beautiful. But even more, she looked radiantly happy. Had she been a mother already when it was painted, or had it been Dimitri who stole that glow from her eyes?

From her papers, and from the tapestry in the entryway, he knew that his royal blood and the inheritance of the manor came through his mother, not his father. He didn’t know a thing about his father’s background. His mother had spoken of him in soft, wistful tones, but the only actual information she had imparted was his name—Jerome.

His mother, however, had been an only child who had inherited the manor on her own mother’s death and who was inline to be the sole inheritor of her father’s vast wealth. But she had left it all behind and run away.

She had left behind everyone except Dimitri, and in taking him, she had cut him off from everything she had rejected. He wished he could have just one more day with her so he could ask her why—one more chance to understand the parts of her she’d always kept hidden.

He stood in front of the portrait for a long time, gazing up at his mother when she must have been about his own age. It was both healing and painful to see her in the glow of life and youth. The mother he remembered was reserved, her stoicism tinged with melancholy, and her smiles short-lived.

When he finally tore himself away, he couldn’t go tamely back to the fire burning in the front sitting room. Driven now, he continued to roam—poking his nose into dining rooms, sitting rooms, a ballroom, and bedroom after bedroom. All were furnished and free of dust, as if the inhabitants had left only the day before.

But something about the quality of the air convinced him the manor had been empty for many years. The Legacy’s enchantment could cover a great deal, but it couldn’t disguise everything. It was in the process of rehabilitating the manor, but the building had been empty a long time.

When he poked his head into yet another bedroom, he paused, sensing something different about this one. The rooms he had seen previously had all been elegantly decorated, but most of them had felt lifeless—like guest rooms, not someone’s private chambers. But this room had a different air.

The curtains around the four-poster bed were a soft filmy pink that reminded him of something. As he stepped into the room, he realized what it was—the dress his mother had been wearing in the portrait.

The chairs were all decorated in pink as well—the first room he had seen with that color scheme. He crossed over to the dressing table, running his fingers lightly along the fancy collection of brushes, combs, and bottles. They were made of gold and crystal and inlaid porcelain, but they sat in neat, untouched rows, as if his mother hadn’t even considered taking any of them. They certainly would have had no place in her simple mountain life.

He picked up the book lying on the small table beside the bed. A history of Glandore. It seemed unexpected reading for his mother, but then it hadn’t been the choice of the middle-aged woman he remembered but of the smiling young woman in the portrait. A young woman who was a stranger to him.

He flipped through the pages and realized it was a romanticized account of the original Beast and the woman who had freed him with her love. Apparently his mother had once believed in fairy tale love.

He set the book down abruptly, his throat clogging. Clearing it, he stepped to the window, glancing down at the grounds below. He had spent little time in the grounds at the rear of the manor, but they were full of the same splendid growth as the front. The Legacy’s efforts were lavish, extending far beyond the stretch of garden that might lure in an unwary passerby.

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