Roses in Red Wax

Roses in Red Wax A Darnalay Castle Novel Louise Mayberry Louise Mayberry Copyright Roses in Red Wax by Louise Mayberry1st Edition. March, 2023 Copyright © 2023 by Louise MayberryEditor: Isabelle FelixCover art: by Hallie ZillmanEbook ISBN: 79-8-9876378-0-7 Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9876378-1-4 All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.Roses in Red Wax takes place against the backdrop of two very real historical events: The Scottish "Radical War" of 1820 and the Highland Clearance. That said, this novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to specific events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Contents Dedication Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-one Twenty-two Twenty-three Twenty-four Twenty-five Twenty-six Twenty-seven Twenty-eight Thank You, Readers! Swept Into the Storm - Sneak Peek Roses in Red Wax Historical Notes Acknowledgements About the Author Dedication T o Stanley, who makes it all possible. Prologue Darnalay Castle, Northeast Scotland June 1818 “Marry me, Janie.” His smile was as bright as the sun itself. “But—” “I spoke to the laird.” She stared at him, disbelieving. “You spoke . . . to my father?” “Aye.” Kendric twined his fingers with hers. “And he agreed?” “Gave me his blessing.” He’d been picking strawberries. She could smell their sweetness on his breath, the damp earth on his hands. This was real. Joy welled inside her, cautious at first, then surging, bubbling up, spilling over. She laughed, then wiped away the tears and pressed her forehead against his, looking deep into his beloved hazel eyes. “We’re to be married. Married.” “Weel . . .” His eyes were dancing. “That depends, dinna it?” “Depends on what?” Had Father set some sort of condition? A test they must pass? “The laird was very clear. You must say aye.” She laughed. “Aye. Aye.” She could see their future unfolding before them, beautiful beyond comprehension. He shouted his happiness to the sky, then drew her out of the shade of the pear tree she’d been thinning and into the sun, spinning her round till her feet left the ground and he was her only point of focus in a swirl of color and sound—grass and birdsong, trees and sky, golden sunshine and wind—then he pulled her close. The outside world fell away, and there was only him. His warmth. His constancy. His love. This was where she belonged, where she would be, for the rest of her life. “Janie.” He drew away, his eyes suddenly serious. “Life with me . . . It willna be as grand as you’re used to in the castle.” She reached out to stroke his cheek, this beautiful boy, now a man, who she’d loved as long as she could remember. The other half of her heart. “Doesna matter. I’ll have you.” He led her to the most ancient tree in her father’s orchard, a wine apple planted by her great-great-grandfather. Its gnarled limbs extended nearly to the ground, creating a secret chamber of leaves and branches, a world unto itself. As children, it had been one of their favorite places to play. Now, it was where they came to escape. To be alone, together. A One Glasgow, March 1820 Jane pulled the hood of her cloak tighter as she hurried up the steps to the Sommerbells’ townhouse. Not that it made any difference. The icy wind cut through the thick woolen fabric, chilling her to the bone. She shivered. With this weather, was it any wonder her dear friend’s tree was dying? Except it wasn’t just the cold, was it? It was her. In the end, everything Jane cared for died. No matter, she was numb to it now. She stood, looking at the door. She could still turn around, go back home, give some excuse for not answering Cynthia’s note— But, no, she couldn’t. She must face what lay ahead, even if the tree was dead. She owed her friend that much. She lifted her hand and knocked, seeing but not feeling her gloved knuckles as they struck the hard oaken door. It opened. She stepped inside and was surrounded by sudden warmth. “Good afternoon, Miss Stuart.” Thomas, the Sommerbells’ footman, reached for her cloak. “Mrs. Sommerbell’s in the—” “Jane! Is that you?” Cynthia’s distressed voice came from above. “Do come up!” Jane handed Thomas her bonnet, then climbed the stairs to the sitting room. Her fingers began the painful ache that comes between numbness and warmth. Cynthia was perched on the sofa in front of the fire. As Jane entered, she hastily put a mark in the book she’d been reading, then sprang up and crossed the room, beckoning for Jane to follow. “Come see. Oh my dear, I think I’ve killed it.” Cynthia hovered over the potted lemon tree before the window. Jane hurried over, relieved to see the leaves were still dark green and glossy. Certainly it wasn’t dead, or dying. But instead of clinging to the branches, the lemons, small and green in their immaturity, were scattered on the floor. Lost. All twenty-two of them. “The last one fell just a half hour ago.” Cynthia stared at the little tree sorrowfully. “Did you move it?” Jane removed her gloves, sinking to her knees to examine the tree. “Yes.” Cynthia stood back to allow Jane room. “When the weather shifted. It got so cold . . . I brought it closer to the fire.” She paused, then added hurriedly.