Three servants entered her bedchamber in the west wing. Without a glance, two lifted her trunk and the other carried away her valise. The only man remaining was Dunn. “There is a carriage awaiting you outside, Miss Pemberton.”
“I cannot leave.”
“There is no choice.”
“I won’t.” She lifted eyes that were blurry, stinging. Regret choked her. “Dunn, please … I must speak with him again.”
“There could be no good in that.”
“I beg of you—”
“I am sorry, Miss Pemberton.” His features remained impassive, but accusations arose in his eyes. “I fear anything you could say would only hurt him more.”
“I never meant to hurt him.” Shaking hands clasped in front of her. “I only came for the truth.”
“Which you have attained. There can be nothing else for you now.”
“There is.” Her heart ached. “Dunn, I love him.”
Pain twisted the steward’s face. “The tragedy, Miss Pemberton, is that he loves you.” He took a step to the side and motioned her through the door, never saying a word until he had escorted her to the carriage. “You had better not return, Miss Pemberton.”
She flinched against the words, as the carriage door slammed shut. “I intend to.”
Henry entered the room. He shut the door carefully without sound, so as not to disturb the silence. There was no sense fighting his curse. He’d already defied it once. Even believed, in some unbroken place in his soul, that the grace of God had permitted him happiness.
Fool. He took slow steps deeper into the room until he stood face to face with the life-size portrait.
Lifeless eyes stared back at him.
He had been eight when the artist had arrived at Wyckhorn. Often times, Henry would slip into the room while she posed, as fascinated with the bright colors of paint as he was with the man’s strange accent.
His mother must have been fascinated too. The earnest smiles Henry had always longed for were bestowed so freely upon the stranger, and the laughter she never gave Henry’s father became frequent in those hours of painting.
Not three months after the portrait was finished, his mother had left. He’d never seen her again.
God, why? Henry’s fingernails sank into his palms. Was it the painter?
He’d always wondered, always kept a hold of the man’s face in his mind. Was that what had drawn his mother away from him?
No.
He couldn’t hate the artist with the strange, alluring accent—because he knew the truth. His mother hadn’t loved him. Not ever. She had betrayed him for things more brilliant, just as Lucy had done.
And now Ella had betrayed him.
Stabs punctured his gut, then twisted. Fool, fool. Over and over again, until he felt sick with the words. God, why did You let me be deceived again?
He should have seen the resemblance, the same shape of her eyes, the same voice of sweetness and honey.
God. His hands gripped the framed portrait. Tears pushed at his closed eyelids. God, why?
Silence.
Why?
More silence, as if to taunt him, as if to deepen his hurt.
A sob pushed through. His teeth clenched as he ripped the portrait from the wall. He slung it to the ground and kicked it away from him.
His mother’s cool, strange eyes stared upward.
God, I loved her. He sank to his knees and tried to muffle his miserable sounds. I loved them all.
The crack in the door wasn’t very big, only large enough that Ewan might see the painting on the ground. And Henry. On the floor, accompanied by noises of grief.
Yes. Ewan retreated backward. Yes, yes, let him cry. Pain was the only thing Henry deserved. Justice was being fulfilled as if God Himself had ordained it.
From a quiet place in the stairwell, two maids whispered to each other. Most of it, Ewan didn’t understand, talk of deceit and lies and Lucy’s sister—but one thing he knew for sure. Miss Woodhart was gone.
The manor was returned to quietness. Death loomed again, as tangible as Lucy’s hair had ever been, or as soft as her skin had ever felt.
He will pay, he will pay. Ewan slipped back through the house unseen, like the shadow of a ghost. It is time, and Lucy is ready, and there is no one to stand against us. He nearly wept with the joy of that thought. Tonight.
The carriage stopped in the middle of the road. Voices outside, then the door swung open and a drenched Mr. Beaumont climbed in.
Ella glared at him.
He took off his hat, pushed back his auburn curls, then wiped the rain from his face.
“Thank God you are safe,” he said, as the carriage began to move. “I was left to innumerable thoughts of what he could have done to you.”
“Why did you come?” She squeezed her hands into fists to stop the trembling. When he didn’t answer, her voice rose, “Why?”
“I—I only wished to avenge your sister.”
“You are lying. You did it for me.”
“No, no, Miss Pemberton, not only you. My thoughts were of your father too.”
“Have you forgotten your religion, vicar?”
“No, I—”
“You what, Mr. Beaumont? Are you so madly in love with me that you would stain your holy coats with blood and pollute your saintly heart with revenge?”
“Yes.” Splotches of color brightened his wet face. “I would have slaughtered him for you and committed far worse sins than that … but I have failed. Now I can do no more than help you escape with your life before he—”
“My life is in no danger, Mr. Beaumont. And even if it were, I would not call upon a man so despicable as you to rescue me.”
His lips slackened. “You have wounded me greatly.”
“Then I have only repaid what you have done to me.”
“Ella, please.” He seized her wrist—
She swung her other hand into his cheek. Once, twice, until finally he released her. With a quick sob, she swung open the carriage door. “Driver! Driver, stop the carriage!”
The wheels came to a slow halt.
She tumbled outside. “I shall walk from here. Continue on without me.”
“Ella, please,” came the vicar’s pleading. “Do not harm yourself on my account. It is not safe to walk unaccompanied, and you shall catch your death in this rain …”
But the driver frowned and shrugged. With a crack of the reins, the horses started away.
The food had no taste, the room no warmth, the air no familiar sound or scent of her.
Peter sat in his usual chair, with his head hung low over an untouched plate. A few times, he glanced up. What a pity his young eyes already knew the marks of pain. They were red, puffy, so full of questions.
Henry had no answers. “Eat, Son.”
His child nodded. He pushed the pickled vegetables to the other side of his plate with his fork. Tears dropped into his food.
“Peter?”
His son’s face turned away.
Sorry. The word rent through Henry as he rose from his chair and went to him. I’m sorry, Peter. He lifted the boy from his chair until the little arms squeezed his neck. “You’re all right.”
“W–why, Papa?” The tiny voice cried in his ear. “Why did she want to leave us?”
“I’m sorry, Son.”
“We have to do our lessons.”
“I know.”
“And Mrs. Lundie has to take care of her until she gets all better.” Peter’s frame wracked. “Doesn’t she, Papa? Doesn’t Mrs. Lundie have to take care of her?”
“Peter, she is gone.” Henry’s voice gave out on the words. “And I would move heaven and earth to bring her back to you, but I can’t.”
His son never answered, only shuddered in his father’s arms until Henry carried him to bed.
He tucked the bedclothes under Peter’s chin. “None of this was your fault, Son.” He smeared tears off the little cheeks. “You must know that. For you, she would have stayed forever.”
“Then why did she leave?” Peter’s chin quivered. “They all go away. Mamma and Miss Morton and Miss Woodhart … they all go away.”
I know. Henry leaned in and pressed his lips against Peter’s wet cheek. I know, my son. I know.
Darkness came faster than Ella had expected. The rain no longer pelted. It fell softly enough to make her dress heavier.
She stumbled to a stop.
Farther ahead, the village lights of Northston beckoned to her like rays of hope.
But there was no hope. Ella did not believe in God, nor in salvation, nor in anything else she’d ever been taught by pompous fools like the vicar. She had no need for such things. She had always managed her own life quite suitably without the help of any immortal Creator.
Only she hadn’t. She had managed nothing well. She had failed at everything she had ever endeavored to do—and hurt others in the doing. She had hurt Lord Sedgewick, who had never been anything but kind to her, who had given her the Bible, who had been willing to love her.
I don’t know what to do. The cry awoke. God, I just don’t know what to do.
She doubted He heard the prayer. If she were His child, perhaps He would listen. If she believed, perhaps He would care.
But she wasn’t and she didn’t.
God.
Her legs shook. She blinked hard against the rain.
Are You listening?
No answer. She wondered what Lord Sedgewick would tell her to do. If only the Bible hadn’t been destroyed, maybe she would know. Maybe the truth she sought was in those pages.
Or maybe she knew the truth already. Wasn’t it God who had rescued her from the flames in her chamber? Wasn’t it God who had kept her awake at nights, haunting her with Lord Sedgewick’s words and the verses in the Bible?
I am weary of unbelief. She covered her face with her hands. “God, do You hear me? I said I am weary with unbelief. I want to believe in You.” She hesitated, swallowed. I do believe in You.
Her skin prickled with a presence she’d never known, a presence that crept into a place of her soul yet undiscovered. And I want to be saved, Christ. If there’s any mercy left, I want to be saved.
The damp night air wafted in from his open window, filled with scents of the sea. Long hours ago, he should have been in bed, seeking refuge in the oblivion of sleep.
But Henry desired rest as little as he desired food. She is gone. How sorrowful and empty rang the echo of those words. How they slipped into all of his tender places and bruised. How they destroyed a part of him he had imagined was restored.
He knew the hatred would return. Perhaps it already had, only not enough to numb him.
Should have never let her come here. How close he’d come to making her his wife. He’d been prepared to entrust her with his home, his son, his heart—all the things that meant the most to him.
But they meant nothing to her. He knew that now.
Something creaked.
Henry turned from the window. Frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Heartache keeping you from sleep, Brother?” Ewan’s lips twitched, as if in a smile. “At least the one you love is not murdered.”
Henry moved to latch the window. “You had better go back to bed.”
“I hate my prison. I am never going back.”
“Ewan—”
“No!” From the folds of his black coat, he drew a gun. “This time, I am the one to speak.”
“Where did you get that?”
“Familiar?”
“I said where did you get it?”
Ewan’s eyes were a strange blend of rage and amusement, his lips still swaying between a frown and a smile. “I would think you would remember. It is the gun you killed her with.”
Henry took a step forward. “Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Ewan, I shall not say it ag—”
Gunfire blasted through the room.
Henry was flung backward, upsetting a chair, toppling to the ground. His fingers fumbled for his thigh and pressed into the wound.
Ewan edged closer. “You have been spared, Brother. You still have your life—more than you gave Lucy.”
Henry lurched to his feet. Pain disoriented his vision and made his brother’s eyes seem like fire. “W–what are you doing?”
“Destroying you.”
“With that?” Henry’s gaze dropped to the gun. “If you had desired to kill me, you could have done it then.”
“I wish I had, but then I might have never known the truth … might never have found her words. She is dead, yet she speaks to me still. Did you know she speaks to me?”
“Give me the gun, Ewan.”
“She says things in her death that she never spoke in life … things about you … about the child.”
“Ewan.” Henry outstretched a bloody hand. “The gun—”
“He is mine.” At first they were faint, whispered words. Hardly distinguishable. Then they came again with force, “Your son is mine … my son.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?”
“You’re out of your head. You’re mad—”
“The diary.” Ewan’s voice lowered. “Or did you not know your wife kept one? Did you not know she wrote of her love in those pages … as if she wanted me to find it … to know I have a son.”
Henry dove forward. His fist flew into his brother’s face, then he grabbed his coat, slammed him against the wall. Lying. Hands groping for Ewan’s neck, fingers digging into his pulse. “Lying,” he rasped. “You’re lying!”
“No.” Ewan’s eyes were bright, fervent, as if he enjoyed the torture. Then his knee swung upward, catching Henry’s thigh.
Pain exploded. A groan slipped from Henry’s throat as he collapsed.
Ewan’s foot struck his face. Once. Twice. Then another kick that made blood sputter from Henry’s lips.
No. Henry lifted on his elbow. Rough hands pinned him to the floor. Ewan—
“No more prison,” came the panted words. “I am escaping with my son … and there will be no more prison.”
Henry ripped free, but knuckles bore down and slammed him back. “I … won’t let you.” Struggling.
Another blow. “You cannot stop me.”
“I will find … you.”
“No.” Ewan’s lips twisted as he bashed once more into Henry’s face.
Blackness caved in, cold and vague. “No.” The words gritted through clenched teeth. He tried to rise. “No … not Peter.”
“You can keep us no longer.”
No, God.
“I shall take him from you, just as you took Lucy from me.” Ewan rose. “She wants it that way. The child is ours.”
Henry dragged himself upward, groped for Ewan’s boot.
But his brother scampered away. The door slammed shut.
And locked.