Curse of Rose de Winter

Chapter 1

Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others.

—Fyodor Dostoevsky

It had been some time before I finally broke down, unable to run another step, when I lifted my head and saw the mansion. The de Winter house, ominous in the heavy rain and dark clouds and yet like a sanctuary. They spoke of a curse within the de Winters, but what rich family didn't have a curse?

My coat and dress were wet, my stockings dirtied, and boots utterly ruined, I turned to the de Winter estate. I really sold my soul to get out of the terrible storm. My sister had recommended this house for me in case of rain but I was wary.

The de Winters were business partners with my father and I wasn't exactly a stranger to them, although Auguste de Winter had died half a year ago and I didn't know who inherited it.

It was a house that seemed to have come out of a dark fairy tale and I had to stifle my breath when I stepped in, guided by the maid. The staircase was symmetrical on both sides, the absence of the first floor in the front hall made it seem all the more bigger.

There was a classical moose head and I felt slightly anxious looking at its black, dull eyes. Large windows showed the lightning outside and I stepped around, making imprints of my muddy shoes.

The maid had welcomed me into the parlor room with large plush sofas with tea and a small plate of two scones. She kindly said Mr.de Winter would meet with me soon, although I had protested strongly. The Mr.de Winter I knew had died recently, and I didn't know his son or whoever inherited the house.

As I drank my tea, I admired the art in their parlor room. It had very detailed ink drawings of young ladies.

One was sitting before a vanity mirror and struggled with her dark hair and a comb. Another, next to her, was a lady praying by a church, again, dark-haired. My eyes ran over the rest, focusing less on their demure expressions and delicacy than the long, dark hair.

"Miss Blanche?"

The maid who called peered at me from the great oak doors. I turned guiltily.

"I beg your pardon?" I frowned. "My name is Rosemarie."

"Are you not Miss Blanche?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I'm Rosemarie Blackwood. I'm just taking shelter here from the rain." She looked confused, but gave a curt nod before scurrying away.

I ached to take off my shoes and massage my feet, yet that would be so shameful that I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I finished the scones and was about to sip more of my tea when the door bursted open. A young man with a sullen face stood there, with locks of dark hair covering his furrowed brows.

Somehow, he looked familiar. To who? His father, or someone I knew? Had we met before?

Then it struck me. The boy at the lake—who was he?

"Miss Blanche, I'm pleased to meet you. Now, please come with me." I didn't know how to feel about a stranger calling me by a different name so surely. He tapped his feet impatiently when I didn't respond. "I said come, please."