Page 31 of Love At First Fright

“Fuck,” he muttered. He answered the call, but his free hand skimmed across her upper thighs, teasing.

“Okay, on my way.” He groaned, hanging up.

“Not yet,” she whispered.

“I have to. They’re ready to shoot again.” He captured her lips with his, smiling against her mouth. “Besides, I like the idea of you all needy and wet for me, sweetheart.”

—

Rosemary stayed in the chapel after Ellis left, taking a moment to catch her breath. She still wasn’t sure why Ellis had reacted the way he had this morning, but he seemed to really regret it. And she felt lighter around him, happier. She didn’t want this to end.

It will end when you go back to the U.S.

, her traitorous brain whispered. There was still some more time left to film: after they left Hallowvale they’d be in the studios in North London for another month.

And in that time, she had to figure out where in the world she would live, as well as finish and deliver the draft of her new book.

The stress was suffocating. She couldn’t think about that tonight.

She, or rather Ellis, had found the ruined chapel where Cecilia said Juliet liked to go.

She wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to look around.

Maybe she could even use it as writing inspiration.

A deconsecrated chapel in the middle of the woods was certainly spooky material.

Ellis knew her well. She wandered around, shafts of moonlight coming in through the broken rafters.

Ivy clung to the empty altar, and all Rosemary could hear was the rustle of her footsteps on the broken earth.

She could understand why Juliet came here. It was peaceful. A good place to contemplate. Rosemary sat down on the front bench pew and caught a glimpse of something sparkling in the corner of the room, tucked to the right of the altar. Draped by ivy and partly hidden was a small alcove.

She reached her hand in, feeling silk. Rosemary pulled it out, finding a beautifully embroidered silk handkerchief, silver and gold thread in a twisting pattern around the edges.

Inside the handkerchief appeared to be a wad of letters, each one placed at different intervals inside a small leather-bound diary. Rosemary peered closer.

They were letters from Cecilia to Juliet.

Had Juliet collected and stored them here this whole time?

Rosemary didn’t have Juliet’s replies, but there seemed to be a small leather journal, too, with the name Juliet Hurst in faded, looping font on the inside cover.

The first letter wasn’t dated, and it read:

Dearest Juliet,

I know you said you would rather throw all your stitching into the lake than come to another tea party in the village, but I beg you, do not leave me alone with the vipers.

You know how much I dislike the gossiping.

No one will let me forget that incident at the pleasure gardens last year, and if they bring it up one more time, you shall have to restrain me from throwing a cucumber sandwich in their faces.

Rosemary found herself stifling a laugh.

This was a new side to the quiet, somewhat restrained Cecilia she had met.

A side that, in all likelihood, no one but Juliet got to see.

She felt bad about snooping, but how else was she meant to make these ghosts kiss and make up (literally) if she didn’t have more information? The letter continued:

My brother has invited Lord Davenport to dinner, what an utter bore.

He doesn’t read novels, Juliet, and you know how I feel about people who do not read.

Please come, this is the third time I am begging, so you can tell how truly desperate I am.

There is nothing I like more than sitting in the corner of a room with you, dearest Juliet, and watching the world go by.

Ever your affectionate friend,

Cecilia

P.S. Duchess has given birth to a litter of three puppies.

Two are sandy brown, as she and the Duke are, but the third is white and black spotted, so I suspect our Duchess has been rather unfaithful to dear Duke.

I tell you all this to recommend the trip to you further, and to give you no reason for disagreeing to come.

Following this letter from Cecilia, there was a note in Juliet’s swirling hand, in the journal.

I cannot believe that C used puppy bribery on me, again. As I write this, she is asleep on my lap. I have named her Precious, for that is what she is to me. I am going to write to C and tell her to never invite me to a tea party at the parsonage again.

The shawl is finally finished. Yes, diary, the very one I have been working on for three months now. I stitched it with roses, blue to match Ceci’s eyes. I hope she likes it. It shan’t trouble me if she wears it or not, for it was a simple gift. I shall give it to her after church on Sunday.

The next page was stuffed with another letter in what Rosemary now recognised as Cecilia’s scrawl. It was hard to tell how much time had passed since the shawl, since there were no other diary entries.

Dearest J,

I apologise for making you dance with Lord D, but he rather coerced me into it. I know he’s a bit of a fortune hunter, and granted, all his talk of horses and hounds is a trifle boorish, but do I not also talk about horses and hounds to you constantly?

But that is not why I am writing—I have good news. I was at the shop in Hallowton this morning, and they had the novel in. The one we heard Lady Marsh talking about after church. The one “By a Lady.” I purchased it immediately. I wonder, do you think it is someone we know?

Believe me always your loving friend,

Cecilia

P.S. Tell me to come and visit soon, when you are not near, I find I miss you greatly.

Juliet’s next diary segment was smudged, almost as if she’d been rushing to get the words out.

That woman. That insufferable woman. How can she say that I would ever tire of her talking to me about her hounds, or the ponies? I told her, in no uncertain terms, that she may talk to me about whatever she likes and I would never tire of it.

When we were in church yesterday, I found my attention wandering, as it does sometimes. I have to be careful, if Papa sees my attention stray even a little, he spends all of Sunday evening reading to me from Fordyce’s sermons.

Still, when we stood to sing a hymn, I watched the back of C’s head.

My lips may have formed the words of the song, but all I thought about was that day last summer, when we were caught in the rainstorm riding Clover and Tip.

We hid in that strange, old barn for hours.

Her always neat hair came loose, and her dress was soaked through.

I confess, diary, I think about that day often.

I am yet to see her in the shawl, though I suppose it is not appropriate wear for either balls or church, the only places we have seen each other recently. Do you think she wears it, diary? I know I said I did not mind but I find myself rather in need of knowing.

The next letter was dated a few days after the previous diary entry.

Dearest Juliet,

As you no doubt saw, I wear the shawl constantly.

So much so that I am afraid dear Bridget must pull it out from under my pillow at night to darn it.

We did not get to speak as much as I wished yesterday, stuck as we were with my sister-in-law’s presence.

I did not tell you, though perhaps it would have been impolite to speak of it in polite company, that when you drink sherry it makes your lips turn as pink as raspberries.

I don’t say this to insult you, only that it makes you far too pretty for your own good.

Next week, at the Duchess’s ball, I shall persuade the butler to allow us some, and I shall steal you off into the library.

Always yours,

C.

After that, one final diary entry.

I have been praying a lot this past month, but all my prayers are full of her. Am I losing my mind? Dear Ceci was wearing that green dress, the one that makes her look so very lovely, at the Summerton ball. She danced with the Viscount, and Lord D.

I waited until the dance was over, and I pulled her out into the garden, and bade her dance with me.

We have held each other many times, of course.

But this was different. Her touch, her hands in mine, felt blasphemous.

I held her ungloved hand in mine, and with her finger, she traced my sherry-pink lips.

Am I so weak to fall so easily, or have I been falling for a long time?

I felt, in that moment, that I needed her lips on mine more than I needed air.

In these late nights and early mornings, I find myself coming out to sit in the chapel in the woods.

It is easier to think out here, in the green darkness, rather than my chambers, where I catch the scent of her perfume on my gowns.

I can no longer find peace in prayer; I spend my time wondering.

In another time, another world, what would we be to each other?

There were no more entries after that. Reading them left an ache deep in Rosemary’s chest. She understood that feeling, she’d felt it once in her teens, and again in her early twenties: to fall for a woman, when you thought it was unrequited, could break even the most hardened heart.

“You read my diary.” Juliet was standing in shadow, by the altar.

“Jesus Christ!” Rosemary jumped out of her skin.

“Close. This was a chapel to St. Mary Magdalene.” The ghost smirked, but she looked tired, her ironed curls in disarray.

“I shouldn’t have read them, I’m sorry.” Rosemary placed the diaries back.

“No. You shouldn’t. Can’t you just stop meddling, and leave us be?” Juliet sighed, and slumped down on a pew.

“I wish I could, but if I leave you both to fight, who knows what will happen next time? I told you before, Juliet, someone nearly died. Do you really want to have that on your conscience?”

Juliet stilled. “No, of course not.”

“Then let me help.”

“There is nothing for you to do!” She threw up her hands. “You’ve read it, you understand. Those feelings I had, they were abnormal, impure. They’re the reason I’m still here. They’re what has ruined everything.”

Rosemary’s eyes widened. “You think because you’re attracted to women that you weren’t able to move on?”

Juliet slumped down on a pew and stared up at the empty altar. “Yes,” she whispered.

“No,” Rosemary replied firmly. “That is not why. That has nothing to do with it.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because who you love isn’t wrong, or sacrilegious in the slightest.”

“It is not the same for you as it was for us.”

“It’s a different time, I understand that. But that doesn’t matter now, it’s just the two of you. The reason you’re both here is for each other.”

Juliet looked up at her. “I wish I could believe you. But I know what I was taught on Sundays, and I know that being trapped here, with her but not having her, that’s my penance.”

Juliet fled into the forest, leaving Rosemary alone in the chapel.

She wanted to help, but how was she meant to undo years of internalised homophobia and self-hatred in a few days?

She couldn’t. Rosemary had never had issues coming out as bi.

Some of her oldest home videos showed her dressed up as a princess, telling her mom and dad that she wanted to marry another princess.

She’d come out to her parents three days after she watched The Mummy —which in hindsight was definitely no coincidence.

Her parents had done what all parents should do: they told her they loved her, and then cracked a joke about how they’d known all along.

She knew she’d been about as lucky as anyone could have wished.

But she remembered how it had been for Dina. Her best friend hadn’t come out to her parents for such a long time, and even though they’d accepted her immediately, the fear that she’d built around her heart had stopped her from getting there for years.

Rosemary supposed she could try to explain to Juliet that queerness was natural, but her only frame of reference was bird species like sand martins and Eastern bluebirds, who tended to form same-sex relationships. She doubted bird facts would work in this instance.

No, Rosemary needed to show Juliet that she could have her happily ever afterlife, with Cecilia. And given the time frame, she suspected there was only one way of doing that.

Rosemary found Lyn back on set.

“I have a weird request.”

“You want me to source some alkaline spring water, boil it, then cool it down, add in one wedge of perfectly ripe lime, a single drop of thirty-five-year-aged balsamic vinegar, and a teaspoon of manuka honey for you?”

“What?”

“That’s what my last boss asked for, that’s all she would drink on set.”

“Okay, less weird than that.”

“Shoot,” they said.

“I need a few sapphic romance books. I’ve made a list, do you think you could order them?”

“You just want me to get you a few books? That’s it. Hire me forever.”

“I take it that’s not an outlandish request then?” Rosemary smiled.

“Not in the slightest, I’ll have them for you tomorrow. Can I ask what they’re for?”

“To help me convince a friend of something.”

Lyn tapped their nose. “Gotcha.”