If some insisted on seeing it as her hobby, let them. If some, even most, thought of her as the woman who'd glided around the country club in a gold gown and diamonds, that was fine. She didn't mind slipping on the glamour now and again. In fact, she could enjoy it.
But the truth of her, the core of her, was standing here, wearing ancient jeans and a faded sweatshirt, a ballcap over her hair and scarred boots on her feet.
The truth of her was a working woman with bills to pay, a business to run, and a home to maintain. It was that woman she was proud of when she took the time to be proud. The Rosalind Harper of the country club and society set was a duty to her name. This, all the rest, was life.
She took a breath, braced herself, and deliberately pushed her mind in a specific direction. She would see what happened, and how both she and Amelia would deal with it.
So she thought: If this was life, hers to live, why couldn't she gamble yet again? Expand that life by taking into it, fully, the man who excited and comforted her, who intrigued and amused her?
The man who had somehow strolled through the maze that grief and work and duty and pride had built around her heart.
The man she loved.
She could live her life alone if need be, but what did it prove? That she was self-sufficient, independent, strong, and able. She knew those things, had been those things - and would always be those things.
And she could be courageous, too.
Didn't it take courage, wasn't it harder to blend one life with another, to share and to cope, to compromise than to live that life alone? It was work to live with a man, to wake up every day prepared to deal with routine, and to be open to surprises.
She'd never shied away from work.
Marriage was a different kettle at this stage of life. There would be no babies made between them. But they could share grandchildren one day. They wouldn't grow up together, but could grow old together.
They could be happy.
They always lie. They're never true.
Roz stood in the same spot, on a gentle rise at the edge of the woods. But In the Garden was gone. There were fields, stark with winter, barren trees, and the feel of ice on the air.
"Not all men," Roz said quietly. "Not always. "
I've known more than you.
She walked across the fields, insubstantial as the mist that began to spread, a shallow sea, over the bare, black ground. Her white gown was filthy, as were her naked feet. Her hair was a tangle of oily gold around a face bright with madness.
Fear blew through Roz like a sudden, vicious storm. But she planted her feet. She'd ride it out.
The light had gone out of the day. Heavy clouds rolled over the sky, smothering the blue with black, a black tinged with violent green.
"I've lived longer than you," Roz said, and though she couldn't stop the shudder as Amelia approached, she stood her ground.
And learned so little. You have all you need. A home, children, work that satisfies you. What do you need with a man?
"Love matters. "
There was a laugh, a wet chortle that screamed across Roz's nerves. Love is the biggest lie. He will fuck you, and use you, and cheat and lie. He will give you pain until you are hollow and empty, until you are dried up and ugly. And dead.
Pity stirred under the fear. "Who betrayed you? Who brought you to this?"
All. They're all the same. They're the whores, though they label us so. Didn't they come to me, ram their cocks into me, while their wives slept alone in their saintly beds?
"Did they force you? Did - "
Then they take what's yours. What wasmine!
She slammed both fists into her belly, and the force of the rage, the grief, and the fury knocked Roz back two full steps.
Here was the storm, spewing out of the sky, bursting out of the ground, swirling though the fog and into the filthy air. It clogged Roz's lungs as if she were breathing mud.