by Ellery Adams
I believe his sacrifice was for us, she thought, her eyes filling with tears. He made sure Parrish would never hurt us again. It’s what the man I married would have done. His last act didn’t belong to Parrish. It belonged to William. My husband.
Guessing that Jane and the sheriff needed privacy, Phelps gave them some space.
Sheriff Evans handed Jane a tissue. “Are you all right?”
Jane wiped her eyes. Instead of answering his question, she said, “Parrish stole a stack of valuable papers from Storyton Hall. They were written by Ernest Hemingway. Is there any chance they survived the fire?”
The sheriff was genuinely aggrieved. “I’m sorry, Ms. Steward, but the car is a blackened shell. Whatever was inside is gone.”
“As are the two men responsible for Ray Pizzolato’s death,” said Jane.
She and Sheriff Evans watched the ambulance pull away.
“Justice has been served. But not in the way I prefer,” the sheriff said. The fire chief hailed him, and Sheriff Evans indicated that he’d be right over. “Get some rest, Ms. Steward. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Jane stood by the side of the road, a lone figure blending in with the shadows, as the first responders finished working the scene. She gazed at the sky again, noticing the dense cloud of smoke hovering over the bridge traversing the river. William and Broken Arm Bend had stopped Parrish from entering the village of Storyton. They’d also sent a piece of literary history up in flames. Jane hoped Hemingway’s words would live a little longer in the drifting smoke—that they would drift down the chimneys of the nearby houses and permeate people’s dreams. Jane thought Hemingway would approve of this sort of ending.
* * *
Later, Jane and her Fins convened in the Daphne du Maurier Morning Room.
“So much for coming clean to Sheriff Evans,” Jane said. Someone had poured her a glass of whiskey and soda, but she’d opted for coffee instead. “It didn’t do us much good, did it?”
Sterling shrugged. “I think it did. Now, he’ll know why the brake lines on the Rolls Parrish drove were tampered with. William punctured the lines in all the cars parked in the front row of the garage bays because he knew Parrish would steal one of them. Both men were doomed the moment they got in the car. William wasn’t taking any chances.”
No one in the room liked Ramsey Parrish. However, they could all imagine the acute terror he must have experienced as he tried to keep the Rolls from crashing through the guardrail and plummeting in a fatal nosedive.
Jane didn’t think William was afraid. He knew he was dying, and he’d chosen how he would leave this world. Jane wanted to believe that he’d be filled with peace in those final seconds.
“Why didn’t William tamper with the brakes in Parrish’s car?” Lachlan asked Sterling.
“Parrish’s car was boxed in by other cars in the valet lot. William knew this. He knew Parrish would be forced to take one of our cars.” Sterling pointed at the slip of paper in the middle of the coffee table. “He planned to take Parrish over the edge at the sharpest bend.”
Sinclair looked at Jane. “It was a noble act.”
The group went quiet for a moment. The only sound was the soft ticking of the mantel clock. Eventually, Butterworth stood up to refresh empty tea or coffee cups.
“What would you like to do, Miss Jane?” he asked as he refilled Lachlan’s cup. “We cannot possibly understand how difficult this experience has been for you. We will do anything in our power to ease your pain.”
Jane rewarded him with a small smile. “Thank you. Knowing I have the support of everyone in this room makes this night bearable. Yes, it is painful. I would like to lay William to rest in the family plot. He belongs in Storyton. I’ll see to the arrangements as soon as Sheriff Evans allows it.”
“The men responsible for the deaths of Mr. Tucker and Mr. Pizzolato are gone. The sheriff is now privy to Storyton Hall’s greatest secret. And the historians check out in the morning.” Sinclair stared at a curl of steam rising from his teacup. “What else can we do to restore order?”
Jane poured cream into her coffee. She watched the swirls of white meld with the deep brown. She gazed at the liquid chaos for several seconds before using her spoon to mix them together, creating a different hue altogether.
“I don’t want to restore order,” she said. “I want to create a new one.”
* * *
The next morning, Jane stood in the lobby and said good-bye to the historians.
Jane saw Mrs. Pratt’s cooking partner, Roger, heading their way. With a stab of guilt, she realized that she’d ruined Mrs. Pratt’s chances with the charismatic historian by asking Betty to separate them at The Cheshire Cat.
“Mr. Bachman, thank you for coming,” she said. “I hope you’ll visit us again in the near future. My friend, Eugenia, would be especially pleased if you did.”
Roger, who’d been looking rather downcast, immediately brightened. “Do you think so? She’s a fascinating woman! I thought we were hitting it off quite well when she suddenly . . .” he trailed off, too embarrassed to continue.
“Mr. Bachman, I know for a fact that you were hitting it off. If you have time to spare before your train leaves, Eugenia might be able to meet you at The Canvas Creamery for a cup of coffee.”
Roger dropped his duffel bag with a thud. “For her, I have all the time in the world.”
Jane ducked into the staff corridor to make the call.
“He wants to see me?” Mrs. Pratt cried. “But I’m a mess! My hair! My makeup! What will he think of me?”
“I believe he already thinks the world of you. And Eugenia?”
Mrs. Pratt had already started talking about her appearance again. Finally, she said, “Yes?”
“After you’re done with your coffee, don’t forget to show Roger the Book Babes.”
Mrs. Pratt giggled like a young girl. “Brilliant idea. There’s nothing like racy art to get a man in the mood. I’d better run. I need at least ten minutes to apply my war paint.”
And with that, Mrs. Pratt was gone.
Back in the lobby, Jane nodded at Roger, and he was out the door like a shot.
Butterworth watched him go. “‘To see a young couple loving each other is no wonder; but to see an old couple loving each other is the best sight of all.’”
Jane gave Butterworth a playful nudge. “You’re a romantic. Who would have guessed?”
“Those are William Thackeray’s words, not mine,” said Butterworth stiffly. However, there was a faint twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
Jane returned to her office to review the architect’s plans for the second phase of the Walt Whitman Spa. She’d barely begun to make notes when she received a phone call from Sheriff Evans.
“Your car has been recovered. It’s completely totaled and everything inside was turned to ash. Neither occupant was wearing a seatbelt at the time of the accident. Both men were thrown from the car. A Biltmore employee drove up early this morning to identify the bodies.”
Broken Arm Bend has claimed two more victims, Jane thought. Aloud, she told the sheriff of her plans to bury William with the rest of the Stewards.
“You’re free to make those arrangements,” he said. After a brief pause, he continued. “I’ve been thinking about your library. Quite a bit, actually. It’s hard not to. I have no right to tell you what to do, but maybe you’d be willing to listen to someone who’s a little longer in the tooth.”
“I’d be glad to hear what you have to say.”
The sheriff cleared his throat, and Jane sensed that he was choosing his words with care. “If I were you, I’d empty that library. Donate or sell the whole collection. Either get rid of it or hire professional security guards. You’re in a high-risk situation, and I’d hate to see anything happen to you or your family. Let those things go, Ms. Steward. For your own good.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Jane thanked the sheriff and hung up.
She worked for another two hour
s before heading up to see Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia. In a firm but gentle tone, she outlined her plan.
“Can’t you wait until I’m dead?” Uncle Aloysius asked. “It’s hard to accept this sort of upheaval at my age.”
Muffet Cat, who’d been sitting next to Aunt Octavia on the sofa, issued a plaintive meow.
Aunt Octavia stroked the cat’s fur. “You see, even Muffet Cat disapproves.”
“We’ll start with baby steps,” Jane said. “And I want you both to be involved in the process. When you get a taste of what happens when we share our treasures, I think you’ll come around to my way of thinking.”
Aunt Octavia snorted and reached for a sugar-free candy.
“Which is why I’m going to use the speakerphone when I call a woman at the Folger Shakespeare Library. I sent her images of our Shakespeare collection, and she’s very eager to authenticate them. She understands our need for anonymity too.”
Before Uncle Aloysius or Aunt Octavia could protest, Jane put her phone in the middle of the coffee table and placed the call. A woman answered. “Elizabeth Martin, may I help you?”
“This is Jane Steward. We spoke earlier about a donation. Did you receive the images?”
“I sure did!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I’m trying to contain my excitement, but I can’t really hide it. I’m very eager to see your collection in person. If you’re ready to entrust it to me, I’d like to pick it up over the weekend. You’re not too far from D.C., and there’s nothing more beautiful than an autumnal drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway.”
Jane glanced at her great-aunt and great-uncle before saying, “That would be just fine. And Elizabeth? I know you can’t authenticate our collection at this time, but how would you feel if all the items I mentioned were actually written by the Bard?”
“How would I feel?” Elizabeth repeated. “Forget about me. How would readers all over the world feel?” She let loose a laugh. “I don’t have the words to tell you how absolutely wondrous such a find would be. Ben Jonson said that Shakespeare was not of an age, but for all time. Century after century, he continues to be relevant. He continues to move us, to make us question, to make us laugh and cry. He forces us to think. To feel. What more could we ask of any writer?”
Aunt Octavia pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
After completing her call, Jane looked at her aunt and uncle. “You see? If we take our motto, the one emblazed on our front gates and embossed on every room-key fob—their stories are our stories—and reverse it, then we’ll finally be getting things right.”
“Our stories are their stories,” said Uncle Aloysius. “By Jove, I think I like it.”
Chapter Seventeen
With the departure of the historians, life in Storyton resumed its natural rhythm.
The following weekend, Jane met with Elizabeth from the Folger Shakespeare Library and was delighted to deliver the Bard’s writing into the older woman’s capable hands. Even Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia enjoyed the donation experience, which strengthened Jane’s conviction that her decision was the right one.
Despite this small triumph, Jane did not feel at peace. After a tumultuous summer, she’d had a dramatic autumn, and these months had left her forever changed. For starters, she’d lost her trust in people. Both her family and her Fins had kept secrets from her. Edwin’s entire life was defined by secrecy. She was sick and tired of deception.
One night, Edwin joined Jane and the boys for dinner at their house. When the meal was done, Jane asked him to walk in the garden with her before he went home.
“I’d love nothing more than to stroll around dying plants on a cold evening,” he said with a smile.
The twins, who were watching The Dark Crystal, sat in front of the TV in a hypnotic trance. They were so engaged that they’d forgotten about the bowl of popcorn Jane had put on the coffee table. Knowing she wouldn’t be gone long, Jane told them she’d be in the walled garden if they needed her. After receiving grunts of acknowledgment, she and Edwin left the house.
The night air was brisk, and Jane was glad she’d brought the shawl Mabel had gotten her to wear at a dinner with a pre-Raphaelite theme. The shawl reminded Jane of that bittersweet dinner and of another guest who’d been killed at Storyton Hall. She wore it because it was a beautiful thing and because she never wanted to forget that guest. Like Ray Pizzolato, Bart had been a good man. Like Ray, he’d been the hapless victim of another man’s twisted soul. Jane would always think of Bart when she wore this shawl, and she’d remember Ray any time someone talked about a devoted educator.
“What’s on your mind?” Edwin asked, reaching for Jane’s hand.
“I’ve been mulling over all the changes I’m planning to make,” she said.
Edwin stopped and looked at her. “Am I one of them?”
“In a way,” Jane said. “When the twins were taken, I learned what real terror is. Terror isn’t a monster from a scary movie. It isn’t the fear of dying. Not when you’re a parent, anyway. Terror is the fear of harm coming to your child. I can handle worry. I can handle stress. Hardship. But I never want to experience that terror again. I never want to think that I’ve let my boys get so close to the fire that they could be seriously burned. You, my love, are a kind of fire.”
“Because of what I am.” There was no inflection in Edwin’s voice. He already knew the answer.
“Yes. And I’d never ask you to change.” Jane continued walking, her hand still in Edwin’s. “That won’t solve our problem. You took an oath. Being a Templar is your calling. If I demanded that you give up that part of your life, you’d grow to resent me. I love you,” she squeezed his hand to emphasize her point. “You know that. But we need to redefine what we are.”
Edwin promised that he would be whatever she needed him to be.
“I want you just as you are,” Jane said with feeling. “And I want to be with you. For the rest of my days. However, I don’t want to involve the boys in our relationship. I don’t want them to start seeing you as a father figure. You and I can be together, but the four of us can’t. Do you understand why?”
Shooting a glance at Edwin, Jane saw that she’d wounded him. The hurt was etched all over his face. Even in the dark, with only the moonlight illuminating his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones, Jane could see the pain shining in his eyes.
“As long as I don’t lose you, I’ll do whatever you ask,” he said. “But I’ll miss being with the boys. I liked feeling that I belonged with all of you. I love the warmth of your kitchen, the noisy chatter and endless energy those boys have. It makes my day to listen to their stories or to get one of their spontaneous hugs. I also love watching you with them. You’re an amazing mother, and I’ll miss seeing you in that role.”
Having felt less-than-stellar as a parent lately, Jane thanked him for the compliment. “Fitz and Hem are my priority. I have to put them first. Before you, before Storyton Hall, before everyone and everything else. That’s what good mothers do.”
Edwin said that he understood, and they walked in silence until they reached the garden. They sat on the wall, in almost the exact spot where Edwin had first told Jane that he loved her. Perhaps remembering that moment, Edwin put his arm around her waist. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I’d rather lose you to Fitz and Hem than to another man,” he said very quietly. “Your husband, for example.”
“Even though William came back into my life, he wasn’t my husband anymore. That William died the night his car went off into that frigid lake,” Jane said. “I will always love the man I once knew, just as I will always feel grief over what became of him. So yes, William will always occupy space in my heart. But you’re not losing me, Edwin. I don’t want us to end. I just want us to change what we are. Doesn’t Rumi say that lovers don’t meet—that they’re in each other all along?” She touched Edwin’s chest. “I’m at home in this heart.”
Edwin grabbed her hand and raised it to hi
s lips. He planted a kiss on her palm and then curled his hand protectively around hers. They sat like this for several minutes. Theirs was a peaceful silence, but Jane felt that the air around them was heavy with unspoken words, so she decided to lighten the mood. “In any case, it’ll be nice to go out on dates like a normal couple.”
Edwin laughed at this. “Has anything ever been normal when it comes to us?” He put his finger under Jane’s chin, forcing her to look at him. “In this new version of me and you, do I still get to kiss you?”
“As often as possible,” Jane whispered. “And I’m feeling a little cold, so could you hold me a bit tighter?”
“I think I can manage that.” Edwin wrapped Jane in his arms and kissed her.
In no time at all, she forgot about everything but the warmth of his lips.
* * *
William was laid to rest on the last Wednesday in September.
The autumn sunshine lit the landscape with a soft, golden glow, and the mountains rising around Storyton Valley were ablaze with color. The air smelled of cut grass and woodsmoke, and as Jane stood in the cemetery, she thought of how much the William she’d known would have loved a day like this.
Jane had hired a minister from a nearby town instead of using the local pastor because there was no way she could explain why she was burying her husband for the second time. And though she worried that an outsider wouldn’t be as good as the pastor she and her family had known for years, he led the graveside service with a quiet sincerity that Jane found most comforting.
She also found comfort in the knowledge that William was joining the Stewards in their family plot. With this simple act, Jane had given her husband what he’d wanted most in life. A family. Like her, William was orphaned at a young age. This commonality was one of the things that had drawn them together when they’d first met. Jane remembered how William envied his friends their family holidays, vacations, photographs, and traditions.
“We’ll make our own family,” Jane had once promised him.
