Beta: Miral-Romanov

Chapter 3

The Last Climactic Note Does Linger

"Your daughter?" repeated John blankly.

"Yes, Rose Marion Tyler," Pete nodded, and John felt his heart drop into his stomach. "She disappeared at the end of summer."

"I see," he replied almost dumbly, suddenly numb all over.

Rose suddenly appeared in the doorway between the shop and the backroom with her hair back in its respective bun, peeking around the corner curiously as she said, "Who is it, John?"

"Rose," gasped Pete, and Jackie all but wailed, "OH MY ROSIE!" before hurling herself towards Rose. She gasped out in alarm, stumbling away from the woman and hurrying towards John, who on instinct dragged her into a protective embrace and sent a suspicious glare at an almost horrified-looking Pete and Jackie.

"Who are you?" Rose said, voice shaking as she clung onto John for dear life.

"We are your parents, Rose," Pete said gently, while Jackie looked like she was nearing a crying fit.

"I…" Rose whispered, trailing off.

John gave her waist a gentle, comforting squeeze despite the fact that his heart was thudding rapidly against his ribcage. "She has no memory of anything before I found her."

Jackie let out a whimper, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth and staring at Rose to the point of discomfort. Pete, swallowing hard, asked, "Where did you find her?"

"At the bottom of a hill."

"About a mile and a half northwest of here?" When John nodded, stunned, Pete couldn't help but send a patronising (John tried hard not to think fatherly) look in Rose's direction. "She called it 'Mount Perdition' when she was a little girl. Always went up there to play even though we told her a hundred times not to."

"Don't you remember us at all?" Jackie suddenly wailed, making everybody jump and causing Rose to hide slightly behind John. "Don't you remember your little brother?"

Since Rose looked frightened, whether it was because Jackie was now sobbing or because of the idea of having a younger sibling she didn't remember, John said quickly, "Madame, please," at the same time that Pete said with caution, "Jacks…"

"Well it's true!" said Jackie shrilly.

"But how can you prove any of it?" demanded Rose from behind John, suddenly gaining the confidence to ask what John had been wanting to ask as well. "You just show up here claiming that I'm your daughter, even though it's been weeks since we went looking for anyone who knew me!"

Jackie flinched, but Pete said in earnest, "We only heard from our friend Sneed yesterday morning. We've a carriage waiting outside, if you'd like to see the estate and see we're telling the truth. Mr. Smith can accompany you, of course," Pete added quickly, when Rose practically clamped herself to John's side.

John swallowed thickly, looking down at Rose for an answer and hoping she'd refuse, praying she'd order her so-called 'parents' to leave and never return and then maybe resume what they'd started five minutes earlier. She glanced at him for the briefest of moments before ducking her head and nodding, and his hope bled out of him at once.

As they followed the duke and duchess out of his house, Rose continued to cling onto him as though expecting to be yanked away, leaving unnoticed that he was now rigid and his face had gone blank. She was forced to let go when they were led to an elegant carriage, and a coachman opened the door and helped the duke, duchess and Rose inside, and John used the little room available as an excuse to try and push himself as far from her as possible, staring impassively out the window at the rolling countryside. Rose was torn between wanting to examine the upper class carriage in awe and wanting to hide behind John again, since Jackie was watching her incessantly with red-rimmed eyes, but because of John's abrupt withdrawal she kept her head in her lap and her eyes locked on her knees.

"Here we are," said Pete awkwardly, when the carriage halted to a stop.

The velvet curtain obstructed the view outside, but when Jackie bustled out first and Pete graciously stayed behind to aid Rose out, John exited as well only to have his jaw hit the ground. Having lived in the more reclusive areas of Glasgow, the loveliest building John had ever seen had been the local church, and that had had paint peeling off the walls. The Powell Estate put the most beautiful of churches to shame, an enormous edifice of glittering stone and crystal windows in the midst of a giant stretch of darkened fields, with an unnecessarily large fountain of a woman holding a jar on her shoulder in the front. John took it in with an almost stony expression and a lump in his throat; under any other circumstance he'd be jotting down poetry because of the view, but he was painfully aware that the time he'd been dreading might have arrived.

Rose wanted to reach for his hand, but as he refused to look at her she instead trailed her fingers over the stone of the fountain when they passed it by, concentrating on the feeling of cool marble underneath her fingertips to try and invoke a memory, and failing. Jackie and Pete led them into the foyer, and Rose stopped walking when she spotted a portrait hung several feet up on the wall of a little girl in an elegant dress, with tightly curled blonde locks and the same eyes, nose and face shape as Rose had.

"We had that done for you when you were nine," Pete said softly, placing a hand on Rose's shoulder.

"It must have been horribly boring to pose for," she replied without mirth, and Jackie let out a tiny chuckle.

"Must have been, since you ran off about a dozen times when the painter wasn't looking," Jackie said fondly. "It's why there aren't any paintings of you when you're older— can't sit still to save your life."

Jackie and Pete led them into the elegantly lavished hallway, where a dark-skinned maid spotted Rose and actually dropped her thankfully empty bucket.

"Lady Rose, welcome home!" she said ecstatically, dropping into a hasty curtsy despite the friendly smile on her face.

"I-I don't…" Rose stammered, stumbling backwards slightly and glancing towards John for help, but he was steadfastly ignoring her.

"She has no memory, Cathica," said Pete kindly, but Jackie said impatiently, "Return to your duties."

Cathica obediently hurried off, and Rose chanced another glance at John, but he was examining a blank spot on the wall with the utmost amount of interest and Rose flinched when she realised just what he was doing— he was distancing himself from her, like he had when they first met.

"This is your bedroom," said Pete, upon pushing open a carved oak door.

Rose stepped in to take in her surroundings, but John lolled in the background, both because of politeness and because Jackie glared daggers at him to make absolutely certain he knew he wasn't welcome before entering the room herself. It was a typical young woman's bedroom, feminine odds and ends scattered across the room with little knickknacks left over from childhood. The wardrobe was slightly ajar, peeking at tasteful dresses and a travelling cloak identical to the one Rose was found in except in a shade of green, and the view from the window overlooked all of the rolling hills and showed a glimpse of the city.

"Do you believe us now, sweetheart?" Jackie said gently.

John watched Rose's back as she ducked her head, swallowing once before nodding, causing Jackie's face to split into a smile. Feeling hollow, John turned on his heel and strode away down the hall.

"Won't you stay the night?" said Pete, once he, his wife and John had gathered in the foyer.

"No, thank you," John replied stiffly, purposely avoiding looking at Rose's portrait. "I must return to the shop."

"Thank you," burst out Jackie, turning slightly pink. "For taking care of our daughter, I mean. And I apologise for, er, shouting."

"Think not of it, Madame," said John blankly.

He turned around and strode out of the estate, heading for the carriage, which Pete and Jackie had graciously lent him to get home. Just as he was circling past the fountain, running footsteps approached him and Rose's frantic voice called out, "Wait!" He stiffened, turning around slowly and looking at her shoulder instead of her face. "Are you just going to leave?"

"I can't stay here, you know," he said, purposely vague.

"So I'll just never see you again, is that it?" Rose said, sounding hurt and near tears.

His throat clenched and he had to swallow three times to be able to speak again. "You've found your family," he said stonily. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I wanted to know who I am!"

"Now you know."

"I don't want to stay here."

"You must."

She flinched at how snappish his tone was, and how his fists were clenched. Her face hardened, jaw setting and voice radiating resentment. "Goodbye then, Mr. Smith." It was his turn to flinch at the distance she put between them simply by calling him that. "Tell Mr. and Mrs. Copper I said goodbye as well."

She turned on her heel and sprinted towards the estate, allowing John to fully take her in, watching her run from him with a lump in his throat. He'd known when he allowed her into his heart the risk he was taking— now she was running from him, back to her family where she belonged, just like he knew she would.

Because everyone always left.

Rose bypassed several maids on her way to her room, tears already streaming even before she slammed the door shut behind her and collapsed onto the bed. She was just starting up a good cry into her pillow when Jackie barged in, gasping out an 'oh' when she spotted Rose.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Jackie asked, and even though her voice was gentle and motherly Rose wanted nothing to do with her.

"Go away." She hugged her pillow, not caring at the look of hurt that crossed Jackie's face. "Please."

"I'll be in the sitting room if you need me," Jackie said kindly despite Rose's rejection, stepping out and closing the door behind her quietly.

Rose sobbed out her despair into her pillow, hating where she was, who she was. She wished her surroundings were decidedly male instead of far too feminine; she wished the bed was stiffer and there wasn't so much lace; more than anything she wished she were the daughter of a farmer and his wife instead of a duke and a duchess. At least then she'd have an excuse to visit John, although he now wanted nothing to do with her— that much was clear from his actions, and it only made her cry harder. Wrapping her arms around herself for comfort, Rose drifted off to memories of sitting by the fire with him in the splintery wooden clock store.

By the time the carriage stopped outside John's store, the sun was setting and the light was waning. John shoved open the door and hurled himself out of the carriage without thanking the coachman, wanting to get as far away from any reminder of Rose's status as he possibly could. Mr. Copper, to his annoyance, was still lounging on his porch like the nosy arse that he was, turning around and beaming at John when he spotted him.

"Evening," Mr. Copper said good-naturedly. "Where's your Rose gone to, eh?"

"She's gone home," John snapped, breezing past him without looking at him. "And she's not mine."

He ignored Mr. Copper's confused look and stormed into his house, slamming the door behind him and pausing a moment to take in his surroundings. The air still held the scent of cinnamon from the pie she'd made hours ago and her things were scattered here and there across his house— a hair ribbon on the end table, the rose he'd bought her in a vase off to the side and Rose's first successfully made clock on the display case, presented above all others like the crown jewels.

Cursing himself mentally for letting her fill his home with her presence when he knew full well he'd just have to say goodbye to her, John stared hard at the ground so as not to see anything that belonged to her and circled around the backroom, making a beeline for what was now his bedroom again. It too was filled with the gifts he'd gotten her, multiple dresses hanging over the edge of the chair, but he ignored them and sank onto his bed, bringing the sheets up to his nose and inhaling deeply. Her scent still clung to the fibres mixed with the cinnamon air and he sank into it, falling asleep in its embrace.

He had dreams of her running away, and in them he always ran after her before giving up, sinking to his knees and crying out apologies. When he woke up, it was afternoon and the scent of cinnamon and Rose were gone, replaced with his own scent, and he almost sobbed at the loss. John had to drag himself out of bed, moving slowly as through swimming through molasses and slinking into the kitchen to eat a meagre lunch of bread and cheese.

He sat in the kitchen for the longest time, debating whether or not to gather all of Rose's things into a box and have them shipped to her, but he decided against it since he didn't have the heart to look at anything, let alone touch it and send it away. His stomach felt hollow despite his pathetic excuse for a lunch, so John did what he usually did to make himself feel better— he circled around to his backroom, sank onto the workbench and prepared a parchment and pen.

John sat there for a full ten minutes, struggling to find a topic and failing. Since the only ink that reached the paper was what dripped from his pen, John furiously crumpled the paper and yanked out a couple of snippets he'd written for later, carefully avoiding the ones Rose inspired and trying to build on them. His mind felt like it was filled with cotton, and he gave up when his thoughts kept wandering back to Rose, throwing down his pen in anger and shoving everything off his desk so that his papers fluttered to the ground and his inkwell smashed all over the floorboards.

He sank onto the couch, hating himself for stumbling upon her at the bottom of that hill, for taking her home and letting himself love her even though he knew what would happen. He hadn't learned from his mistakes as a child and now he was paying the price for it— he was nothing. And if he couldn't write poetry anymore then he was less than nothing.

John stood up abruptly before going throughout the house and shutting all of the drapes, so that he didn't have to see anything but the dark.

Rose didn't wake to the sound of twittering birds like she usually did, nor did she feel the scratch of the wool comforter on her arms. It made it all the more real that she wasn't home anymore, and with a sinking feeling in her chest Rose wrapped the too-soft duvet around her tighter and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to fall back asleep. A knock on the door sounded just before Rose was about to drift back into peaceful ignorance, jolting her back to reality as somebody entered the room.

"Good morning, Lady Rose," said a woman's voice as she wheeled in a breakfast cart.

"Don't call me that," Rose replied stonily, sitting up and rumpling her hair. She took in the sight of another maid busying herself with pouring tea into a china cup. "What's your name?"

"Ida, Lady Ro— miss," she corrected quickly, pushing the tray towards Rose's bed. "Duchess Tyler said to bring you up breakfast."

"Er, thank you," said Rose, taking the cup of tea from Ida and sipping it tentatively, wishing very much that she was tasting John's ever-changing blend.

"Would you like me to throw out your gown, La— miss?"

"No!" Rose clutched at the bodice of her gown protectively, shoving herself as far from Ida as possible. She'd sooner set the estate on fire than give up one of her only ties to John.

"Then, would you like me to help you dress?" Ida asked, making Rose frown at her.

"I can dress on my own, thanks," she said a bit shortly.

As it turned out, she could not dress on her own, not with the hundreds of frills and bows on her gown, and the multiple underskirts, and the corset. If this was what was considered 'proper', then Rose had been running around London naked. It took a full hour for Ida to properly dress her, which included a light powdering on her cheeks and her hair tucked into a bonnet, and by the time Ida left the room Rose felt like a china doll. She sat at the vanity for a few moments, staring at her reflection in the mirror and trying not to cry— she looked lovely, there was no question about it, but everything was too perfect, too pristine and noble, like they planned to trot her out on display. John never cared about her appearance; he always told her she looked lovely regardless of what she wore or how she styled her hair, and she'd never used makeup before.

Rose swiped at her eyes hastily, angry with herself for clinging onto the thought of John— he clearly had no trouble forgetting her, since he'd already been halfway there and they hadn't even said goodbye yet. Standing up with difficulty because of her corset, she held her head high and decided that she'd forget him too.

Even if it meant forgetting all that she knew again.

He was pathetic, and he knew it.

He felt a lot like after he'd received word that his parents had died in Glasgow— hollow, stiff and unwilling to move from wherever he'd plopped himself. Food tasted like sawdust, and it was always cold, even when the fire was lit. After some number of hours of just drifting through the house like a ghost, John had a random moment of disgust at himself and determination to get the hell back to normal, so he yanked on his jacket with resolve and headed towards the door, only to lose his nerve at once when he spotted an eagle-eyed Mr. Copper stationed on his porch, as though hoping to intercept him for information. And right now, he couldn't handle the idea of having to explain to a neighbour who'd thought he was a murderer for years why his saving grace had suddenly left.

Mostly he just slept, the curtains always drawn so that he didn't have to look at Rose's things. Sometimes he didn't dream, but when he did, he always, always dreamed of her.

Three days passed by and Rose found a noble's life to be horribly boring. Her mother insisted that Rose be in her realm of view for the entirety of the day, but spent most of that time chattering on about the same type of gossip Rose always used to hear Mrs. Copper speak of, and constantly planned outings and balls. Rose dreaded each and every one of them— she and John hadn't figured out if Rose could dance, and Rose didn't want to find out she couldn't in a room full of stodgy strangers.

Rose wandered into the sitting room, seeing Jackie — her mother, she reminded herself firmly — perched on the chesterfield nearest to the fire, holding a small child who couldn't have been older than eight months. Was that her brother?

Jackie looked up, smiling at Rose in the doorway and saying, "Would you like to hold him?"

She hesitated before walking towards them, leaning down so that Jackie could place the infant in her awkward hold. Her brother had a tuft of blonde-ginger hair on his downy head and gigantic blue eyes that swivelled towards her, mouth parted in awe as they stared at each other.

"What's his name?" Rose asked quietly.

"Anthony," Jackie said, beaming at her children. "We call him Tony."

One of the servants called out to Jackie for her attention, allowing Rose a brief moment of solitude with her brother, who continued to blink at her like she was the most fascinating anomaly he'd ever seen. "Are you really my brother?" Rose whispered, rocking him slightly and looking down at him with sadness in her eyes. "I'm sorry I don't remember you." When Jackie returned, Rose handed Tony back to her and sat down with her on the couch, waiting until Jackie handed off her brother to the servant and sat down as well before speaking. "What exactly did we do here?" Rose asked her hesitantly, hoping she didn't offend her mother by letting on how boring nobility appeared.

Jackie chuckled, as if she knew full well what Rose thought, and said, "You always said being nobility was droll and uneventful." She flushed with embarrassment, until Jackie added, "I doubt very much that changed, even with your memory loss."

"Sorry," Rose mumbled, but Jackie merely patted her hand.

"You've always been different from us, love," her mother replied fondly. "Refused to wear your corsets to dinner parties, ran around the countryside in the mud instead of learning to embroider—" Rose had to force back a smile, unable to help but remember John's attempt to teach her how to sew and the gigantic mess of thread they'd had to untangle, "— making friends with the maids and the paupers. You always told me you were glad you would not have to inherit the dukedom, that you wished to leave nobility." Her mother's voice grew despondently soft, and Rose stared at her knees. "It was always different for me, love. Used to be a peasant, me— my mother was a cook in Pete's estate when we were children."

Rose gaped at her mother. "What?"

Jackie chuckled, saying, "You always loved it when I told you those stories. I don't speak nearly as eloquently as other nobles, and you always wondered why."

"How did you become a duchess?" Rose asked with interest.

"I overheard one of the guests plotting to murder the Duke— Pete's father," she explained. "They saw fit to reward me with the title of a lady. Then I married Pete," she added with a sigh, fluffing her hair and leaving Rose's brilliant smile unnoticed. "Not all of nobility marry for wealth and status, you know."

"Thank goodness," Rose mumbled, feeling warmth spread through her chest.

"Of course, that's no excuse for your behaviour," said Jackie, returning to earnestness and sending her a sharp look that she recoiled from. "Always went for walks, you. Said they 'cleared your head'— you even climbed out your window like a wild animal to get out."

That explained why she was found in the plains, far from the Powell Estate. "Why was I found wearing a pauper's gown?" Rose asked, suddenly remembering.

"We insisted. We decided that if you were to roam the city, you shouldn't do so dressed like an ample target for cutthroats."

"When John—" Rose swallowed. "When Mr. Smith took me to see the physician, they both surmised that I'd been attacked by thieves." Jackie visibly paled, lifting a hand and tilting Rose's head to the side so she could examine the fading scar leftover from her attack. "It doesn't hurt. They said it was shallow, and John—"

She stopped herself yet again from mentioning him, returning her hardened gaze to her knees. Her mother said, voice gentle, "Tell me about him, love."

"Why?" Rose said bitterly. "I shan't be seeing him again." At her mother's insistent look, she deflated at once, although the corset refused to let her slump forward like she wanted to. "What do you wish to know?"

"How old was he?"

"I don't know, I didn't ask."

Jackie pursed her lips, looking very much in the role of a disapproving mother. "Looked at least fifty to me."

"I suppose."

"Did you kiss him?" Jackie demanded. Rose flushed crimson, hiding her face in her hands, and Jackie gaped. "You did! Ooh, I ought to march down there and strike him, the horrid man! Taking advantage of my daughter when she's ill—"

"Mother," said Rose sternly, purposely calling her that to get her to stop and succeeding, for a moment. "He did not take advantage of me."

"Of course he did!" said Jackie shrilly, waving her hands like they were jewelled ring-covered windmills. "You're an innocent young woman with no memory at all and you were dependent on him! Ghastly old man, I'll bet if we hadn't arrived he would have—"

"I love him!" Rose burst out, before clapping a hand over her mouth and turning red yet again when Jackie froze, staring at her endlessly.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said at last, so forlornly it made Rose's vision blur with tears. "Really?"

She nodded, lowering her hands from her mouth to reveal her trembling lower lip. "But it doesn't matter," she cried. "He sent me away. He doesn't want me with him, even though he's got no one else and he told me everyone else in his life left him, and he sent me away anyway!"

Jackie drew her into a tight embrace, letting her daughter sob into her lap. "That's not true, love," she said gently, taking out the jewelled comb from Rose's hair so Jackie could run her fingers through it while she cried. "He looked like he would step in front of a lead bullet for you when we showed up. Honestly, do I look that dangerous? Don't answer that," she added hastily, making Rose let out an involuntary, watery laugh.

"Then why'd he send me away?" Rose whispered, sniffling.

"You said he told you everybody left him. Maybe he was frightened you were doing the same."

"I told him I didn't want to— that I wanted to stay with him."

"Some people push others away so they don't get hurt, sweetheart. He sent you away so you wouldn't do it first."

That would certainly explain how, when he'd been suspicious of Jackie and Pete, he clung to her protectively and immediately retreated when evidence arose. Feeling her chest seize up with guilt for spending the last three days hating him, Rose curled her fingers tightly around the fabric of her mother's gown and cried harder.

His bed no longer smelled like her, and at first he was angry about it, but he had no energy left to be angry anymore. John rolled over onto his side, the bed creaking from his actions, and buried his face into the pillow she'd used, eyes shut and feeling heavy, and he was just about to drift off into another brief sleep when the mattress depleted next to him and a hand glided over his shoulder. John's eyes flew open in alarm and he made to sit up quickly, but the hand pressed down gently and her voice said on a gentle whisper, "John, it's me."

He slumped down at once, pushing aside the spread of bliss at her return and shoving up his emotional walls. "What on Earth are you doing here, Rose?"

"You know why." He inhaled deeply, chest tightening when he breathed in her scent mixed with expensive perfume— she didn't need it. "John, look at me."

He squeezed his eyes shut for the briefest second before opening them again and sitting up, turning towards her. The drapes were still drawn and the room was dark, but he could faintly see the outline of her figure, hair beautifully coiffed and expensive pearl earrings hanging from her ears— although, he realised, she was still wearing the necklace he'd bought her. Oh, she looked lovely. "Why are you here?" he asked again, keeping his tone stony despite the warmth blossoming in his stomach.

"You know why," she repeated, keeping her hand on his shoulder.

"How did you get here?"

The corner of her mouth quirked up in that frustratingly endearing way. "Climbed out my bedroom window."

"Go home, Rose," John said shortly, shrugging off her hand and shoving the covers off his legs so he could stand, fully intent on marching her to the common hall until her parents could fetch her.

"I am home," she said earnestly, standing up as well and stepping in front of him before he had a chance to storm out of the room.

"Don't be foolish Rose," he snapped.

"Stop pushing me away, John," she snapped back, holding her head high and glaring at him.

"I'm not—"

"Yes you are."

"You can't just ignore your family, Rose."

"I never said I was going to, but I'm not going to ignore you either, not even if you want me to." Her blush shadowed her face, but she kept her eyes locked on his as she stepped forward and pressed her hand against his sternum. "I love you."

All Rose heard was a sharp inhale of astonishment before his mouth crashed onto hers; she let out a shuddering breath of relief and tossed her arms around his neck, smiling against his lips when one of his arms wove around her waist and pressed her desperately to his front as though trying to merge the two of them, and the other travelled up her back to tangle his fingers into her hair. Her comb dislodged from her locks and clattered to the floor, but they both ignored it as it skittered underneath John's armoire.

"Oh Rose," John gasped, pulling away for the briefest second before pecking another kiss on her reddened mouth, as though he couldn't stay away for too long. "I'm so sorry…"

"I know," she murmured through his kisses.

"And…" He swallowed hard. "I-I love you too."

She beamed at him, one hand sliding onto his cheek. "I know."

Let us pen these truths, these errant facts

By light arising from cornsilk wax

Beneath the veil of untempered bliss

Does blossom the fact of naught amiss

A/N: And so ends the final independent installment in the series. I think I'm gonna cry Xl Next up is the Ageless, Timeless sequel for those smut-lovers who requested it, so keep an eye out for 'Regardless' (or just follow me :3). Thanks go out to LieselMargarite, Infinities Lover, Kathryn Hart (THANK YOU :DD) shadowneko003, New Eliza D, MirrorFlower and DarkWind, DeepBlue-sama, Miral-Romanov, an EpicGuest and a regular Guest (but still epic :3) The poem title for this chapter was from an excerpt from one of my completed poems, "This crackling stormcloud within blue palms; Its thunderous voice that whistles psalms; This floating mist perched on my finger; The last climactic note does linger." © Me :) Thanks for reading!