Murder at Keyhaven Castle
Page 26
“I’m not proud of it, but . . .” Her mother raised her chin, in an eerie imitation of Lady Atherly. “But your father was so difficult, so inattentive.... I fell in love with someone else—Eugene, my husband. Elijah found out. He wouldn’t forgive me or divorce me or let me take you. Instead, I was dead to him, and you.”
“You’re back now.”
“When I read the announcement of your wedding in the newspaper”—Stella’s mother reached over and cupped Stella’s cheek—“I had to come. I had to know you were marrying a man who would make you happy. And seeing you together, I know he does.”
Stella suddenly remembered the thoughtful gift with no name. “It was you who sent me the souvenir spoon,” Stella said, holding her mother’s hand on her face.
“I did.”
“And the unsigned sympathy card?”
Her mother nodded. “That one I regret, sugar. Elijah was your father, and you were mourning him. I shouldn’t have let my feelings for him get the best of me.”
“Thank you.” She almost added that her mother was right. Stella was better off without him, but she wasn’t prepared to say it out loud yet. If ever.
“I would’ve called on you myself, but I didn’t know how you’d handle another shock. I came to the wedding instead.”
Another knock on the door and Mrs. Nelson, the housekeeper, peeked in. “The train leaves at half past, my lady.”
Will I ever get used to being called that? Stella acknowledged the need to leave with a nod, adjusted her hat in the mirror quickly, and turned to go.
“I’ve missed so much,” her mother said, rushing to grab Stella’s hand. “And now you’re leaving so soon.”
“My honeymoon won’t last forever. And when you go back to Montana, Lyndy and I can visit you,” Stella reassured her, squeezing her hand. “We have our whole lives to get reacquainted.”
“Oh, sugar,” her mother said, a slight catch in her throat when she let go of Stella’s hand.
Aunt Ivy and her mother accompanied Stella to the top of the stairs, but Stella descended alone. Lyndy was waiting for her at the bottom.
“Our carriage awaits. Shall we, Lady Lyndhurst?” He held out his hand.
Lifting her skirts, she floated down to him. “Oh, Lyndy, I do love the sound of that.”
Not because it meant she’d achieved the social status her father so craved but because it meant she belonged to someone, to something bigger than herself. She wasn’t born to the name, she didn’t buy the name, but was granted it through love.
She took his hand, her gold wedding ring glimmering in the light of the stained-glass window above. The manor, her mother, the music faded away.
“And I love you, Lady Lyndhurst,” Lyndy said, adoration shining on his face as he raised her hand to his lips. “And I shall . . . always.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While in the New Forest researching this book, I was fortunate to encounter several people who went above and beyond to aid me in my pursuit of minute details. To these, I say thank you: the ever-helpful staff of the New Forest Heritage Museum and Christopher Tower Reference Library; the wonderful guides of New Forest Platinum Tours who cheerfully drove me everywhere I wanted to go, regardless of the strangeness of the request; and Ron Kirby, a particularly gracious and knowledgeable gentleman who, despite the pouring rain, gave me what became a private walking tour of Lymington. As always, it is my fault if I got the details wrong. Having written most of this book during a pandemic, I leaned more heavily than usual on my support network at home: my fellow Sleuths in Time writers; the ladies of my book club; my dear friend, Jacqueline Clark Fisher; and my family. All without whom. Thank you!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Although the New Forest is famous for its sweeping heathland and stands of ancient oaks, it also boasts miles of coastline. There you will find grassy coastal cliffs, sandy and shingle beaches, saltmarsh, mudflats, and lagoons. In addition to the city of Lymington, the coastline is dotted by villages like Barton on Sea, Milton on Sea, and Keyhaven. Flanking approximately either end of the New Forest coastline are the medieval castles of Calshot and Hurst. It was Hurst Castle, set out at the southern end of a coastal spit, that I primarily modeled my fictional Keyhaven Castle on. It was built by King Henry VIII between 1541 and 1544 using the stone from the nearby dissolved Beaulieu Abbey. England is dotted with such castles, many that were open to the curious eyes of Edwardian sightseers. Hurst Castle, however, was not one of them. From its onset, Hurst Castle was an important artillery fort used to defend England against foreign invasion until as recent as 1956. Luckily, it is now a museum. I spent a very fulfilling day wandering its narrow halls, climbing its spiraling stone stairs, and admiring the breathtaking views from the top.
One of the joys of writing historical fiction is the ability to weave historical facts into the fictional story I’ve created. And as always, I’ve tried very hard to get my factual details right. Southampton was (and still is) a bustling port (most famous as the origin port for the RMS Titanic) just a few miles outside the New Forest and if you were by the docks in the early part of the 20th century, you couldn’t have missed the exotic banana display at Snook’s Fruit Market. Likewise strolling the New Forest in 1905, it wouldn’t have been unusual to walk beneath the spreading limbs of an oak tree (one bearing a name like Knightwood Oak and Eagle Oak) that was at least 500 years old. As to the practice of using horse “ringers,” the switching of one racehorse for another was cause for scandal throughout the 19th and 20th centuries. But occasionally, to make the story work, I’m forced to take a few liberties with the truth. One example of this is the horse that placed in the St. Leger Stakes in 1905. Challacombe, the winner of the St. Leger Stakes, the oldest of the British classic horse races and the final leg of the British Triple Crown, was the real champion. In my story, the Kendricks’ Thoroughbred Tupper takes second in the race. In reality, it was a three-year-old colt named Polymelus, owned by the Marquess of Crewe. Another example is the .38 revolver claimed to be owned by Jesse James. My research never uncovered such a gun. However, Jesse James’s mother was notorious in crediting hundreds of guns as once belonging to her infamous deceased son. I modeled Jesse James Prescott’s revolver after one supposedly belonging to Mrs. Zerelda Mimms James, the outlaw’s widow.