by Karen Ranney
Now he knew that it was simply because the crypt was below the earth, and what he smelled was dampness. There were no windows to allow sunshine to filter in. For that reason, there were candles in various spots, along with matches. At the base of the steps he found the nearest one and lit it, carrying it with him.
He went to stand before the wall facing east. One brass plaque was lighter than the others. He reached out with his right hand and placed his fingers over the incised letters. Mary Alice Adaire, Countess of Burfield. His mother. He wished he’d known. He wished he could have had the freedom of being her son, to embrace her, to kiss her scarred cheek. To tell her thank you for saving him. Thank you for caring more about him than her own safety or health.
Thank you for his life.
Yet, even not knowing who he was, she’d treated him with kindness and love. She’d been as maternal to him as she might have been knowing the truth. She had taught him well, preparing him for the day when he would have no one to watch over him or to care.
His heart ached in a way he could never remember feeling. After a moment he identified the emotion: regret. Perhaps he’d experienced it before, but never this way, never this deeply.
His earliest memories featured Jennifer. They were laughing, holding each other’s hands as they were running up one of the hills behind Adaire Hall. Jennifer loved the woods, but she was forbidden to explore them. Even at five, he was more adventurous and probably manipulative. He always urged her to come with him, but she, a year younger, always pulled back, saying in that sweet, lilting voice of hers, “Mama said not.”
More than once in his childhood he wished he had a mother like the countess.
He always seemed to interrupt his parents when they didn’t wish to be bothered. Or ask questions for which there were no answers. Or tempt Betty to take out the switch she kept hanging by the front door for times when her patience was thin and his daring was great.
All his life he’d had a feeling that he didn’t fit in, and now he knew why.
He was having a difficult time reordering his history. The process would probably take years instead of minutes. He wanted to howl, to scream, to claw at life itself, demand that those days, weeks, months, and years be returned to him.
Jennifer had always been an integral part of who he was. She’d been important to him, vital to who he knew himself to be. The day wasn’t complete until he’d talked to Jennifer. No problem was that difficult once they’d talked it over. No anger so insurmountable once they’d spoken. She was so vital to his life that he couldn’t remember any significant event without her presence in it. When she went off to Edinburgh to be with her godmother for weeks every few months, he’d suffered for her absence.
Betty had known. All those years when she’d seen the relationship developing between him and Jennifer, she’d known the truth. All those years when she’d criticized him for drawing breath, she’d known who he really was. Her selfishness had been stronger than her decency, so she kept silent.
He hated her, more than he ever hated anyone or anything.
What did he do with his rage?
Nothing. Betty was beyond him. He couldn’t do anything to her. She’d never get justice.
He turned his attention to the brass plaque belonging to the fifth Earl of Burfield. His father had only lived a few years after the night of the nursery fire, succumbing to an accident while riding his favorite stallion.
Gordon had been five at the time and could barely remember what the man looked like. He tried to make sense of the fact that the earl had been his father, but he discovered that it didn’t matter much. Alexander Adaire was only a shadowy figure to him. He couldn’t remember much about the man, other than the fact that the countess had grieved for years after his death. No one had ever said anything bad about the earl. He’d been a good employer, a fair man, someone obviously beloved at Adaire Hall.
Two things had happened immediately following his death. Harrison had become the sixth Earl of Burfield, and Richard McBain had arrived at Adaire Hall to become his guardian.
An iron bench had been placed in the middle of the crypt. No doubt it was designed for people to spend some time in contemplation, to weep, or pray. He placed the candle beside the bench and sat. He wasn’t weeping, but perhaps his thoughts were in the way of a prayer. He had to be able to handle this, but he was very much afraid it was the one task he’d been given that was greater than his strength.
How did he endure this?
For five years he’d done everything in his power to remake himself, to become a success. He wanted to be worthy of Jennifer Adaire.
He stood, picked up the iron bench, and hurled it at the wall. When it crashed against the brick, he hauled up one end and threw it again. He wanted to destroy something, lay waste to it, create rubble. He overturned both iron candleholders, hearing them fall to the concrete floor with satisfaction, the candles rolling to rest against the crypt.
The candle sputtered out, leaving him in the darkness.
A moment later he grabbed the decorative trellis of the iron wall, his head falling between his outstretched arms.
“Why?”
God didn’t answer.
“Why did this happen? Why did You let it happen?”
God was silent.
Gordon had taken everything he’d been given in his life and managed to overcome it. The only kindness he’d ever been shown had come from the countess and Jennifer. The countess died, and Jennifer had been taken from him, but he’d come back to her.
Now God had taken her away forever.
Sean’s deathbed confession had altered the whole of his life.
He’d survived being the gardener’s son. He didn’t know if he would survive learning that Jennifer was his sister.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jennifer knocked on the door of the gardener’s cottage, but there was no answer. She waited a moment, then knocked again. When she still didn’t get a response, she looked into the open window.
She couldn’t see anyone in the main room. Sean’s door was closed, as was Gordon’s. Where was Sally? Sean was too ill to have gone anywhere. Nor did she believe that either Gordon or Sally would have left him alone.
She debated with herself for at least five minutes before putting her hand on the latch and pushing the door in slowly.
“Gordon?”
No answer.
“Sally?”
The window in the front room was wide-open, letting in the cold air.
She heard something, a noise from behind Sean’s door. She was violating his privacy as well as Gordon’s. With any luck they’d understand that it was worry that had prompted her to trespass.
She walked to Sean’s door and stood there listening.
The door wasn’t latched completely, and she heard Sally’s voice. Not in conversation, but in prayer.
“Sally?”
The door suddenly opened and she was greeted by the sight of Sally standing there, her eyes red and tears on her cheeks.
Behind her the bedroom window was wide-open.
“Oh, Miss Jennifer, I knew it would happen, but it takes you by surprise anyway, doesn’t it?”
“Sean? He’s passed?”
Sally nodded, brushing at her wet cheeks. “Aye, and Gordon not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Sally said. “He left about two hours ago and I haven’t seen him since.”
He hadn’t come to the Hall. Where had he gone?
She moved into Sean’s room and sat on the chair beside the bed.
The traditions of death were more complicated than those for birth, but both would be observed at Adaire Hall this week. The piper would play the Adaire Lament to let everyone know that someone at the Hall had died.
Sally had already washed Sean’s face, his thinning blond hair neatly combed. His ruddy complexion spoke of a life outdoors. The lines that had etched themselves into his face in the past two years were due to
pain more than age.
He looked at peace now, his lips almost in a half smile. His hands had been folded, one on top of the other on the sheet. She reached over and patted Sean’s hand, surprised at how cold he felt.
She knew why the windows were open now. It was customary to open the windows at death to allow the soul to fly free.
Blinking back tears, she stood and leaned over the bed to kiss Sean’s forehead.
Birth and death had come to Adaire Hall.
“Thank you for everything, Sally. I’ll send Moira to help you with the rest of the preparations.”
“It was a pleasure, Miss Jennifer. He was a gruff man from time to time, but that was the pain talking. He had a heart in him as well.”
Several people, Gordon included, would dispute her analysis of Sean. One thing he had been, however, was unfailingly loyal to her mother and to Harrison.
Sally followed her into the front room. Soon the chairs would all be sprinkled with water. If there was any milk in the cottage it would be poured onto the ground, and a piece of iron would be thrust through any foodstuffs to prevent death from entering them. The mantel clock would be stopped and any pictures covered with a blanket or sheet.
Jennifer would send word to the minister and also inform her neighbors of Sean’s death. He’d been an important man at Adaire Hall and they would attend the funeral.
First, however, she had to find Gordon.
Gordon climbed up the crypt steps slowly. When he emerged into the sunlight of the chapel he blinked at the brightness. Did anyone ever use the chapel for a place of solace anymore? Did they look up at the altar and wonder if God lingered there?
He wished there was somewhere he could go, like a fox to his den, someplace safe where he could recover from the news he’d been given. Some haven where he could fit armor around his emotions and steady himself.
He had never felt this weak.
The cottage wasn’t an option right now. Nor did he want to go to the Hall. He didn’t think he could bear seeing Jennifer with his emotions as shredded as they were.
There were a dozen places he could go around Adaire Hall. He could take the path up into the hills like he and Jennifer had often done in order to escape Harrison’s bullying and the watchful eyes of the adults. Or he could go past the stables, into the strath, and sit beside the river, watching the waterfall. Instead, he went to the one place that had always meant the most to him, the one spot he’d always gone when he was troubled.
The dock was new, the wood boards replacing those that had been rotting when he was a boy. He’d learned which ones to avoid, to step over, to get to the end, where the rowboat was moored.
He could always take the boat out to the center of the lake and sit there watching as the sun took its path across the sky. He’d be alone at least. No one could bother him. Or he could simply sit at the end of the dock soaking up the sun and feeling the heat on his back, a welcome change from being in the crypt.
This was a favorite place for some of the staff to fish on their half days off or when their duties were done. No one was here today. Perhaps it would’ve been better if he’d had company. Anything but concentrate on the thoughts spinning in his mind.
His life was never going to be as filled with promise as he’d thought on rising this morning. He wouldn’t have Jennifer with him. She would never be his partner, the mother of his children, the one person he trusted among others.
Loving her was wrong. His brain told his heart that, but his emotions hadn’t yet caught up.
How could his life have changed in an instant? Yet it had happened that way five years ago. One moment he was at Adaire Hall, filled with amorphous plans to make something of his life. The next he was shown the door, a carriage bearing him away. Unwelcome, unwanted, and homeless.
Yet it had been the best thing that could have happened to him. He’d been forced to put his effort into all those plans he’d made. He’d remade himself. He could do it again. Except that this time it would be more of a challenge. Instead of a hill, Fate had given him a mountain the size of Ben Nevis to climb.
The sun warmed his back, but he still felt the chill of the day. He should go back to the cottage, gather up his belongings, and leave for London. No one at Adaire Hall would understand his abrupt departure, but he didn’t think he could sit with Sean one more minute.
He’d never understood why Sean was so impatient, why he didn’t seem to have any fatherly feelings. Everything was beginning to make sense, like a pattern that had been blurry and was just now coming into focus.
Although Sean had sworn that he hadn’t known about the switch until Betty’s death, Gordon wasn’t sure he believed him. Something must have made Sean suspicious.
Betty’s interest and constant praise of Harrison was now understandable. Every time Harrison did something wrong, she was predisposed to instantly forgive him. For years Gordon had resented that preferential treatment, thinking that it was because Harrison was the earl. No, it was because Harrison was Betty’s child.
She’d been lucky; everything had conspired to aid Betty in her ruse. There weren’t any portraits remaining of the Adaire family since the portrait gallery had been housed in the north wing and had also been destroyed in the fire.
The wet nurse had perished that night. What about the other girl, the nursery maid? Where was she?
He hadn’t asked Sean if there was anyone else who knew that the babies had been switched, anyone who could provide testimony as to what Betty had done. For that matter, he would need to record Sean’s confession, at least have it witnessed by someone in addition to himself.
Without proof, he had nothing. Without proof, he had to believe Sean.
First of all, he would go back to the cottage, ask Sally to sit with him, and have Sean repeat what he’d learned from Betty. Then he would see if he could find the nursery maid. She’d still been employed at the Hall when he lived there, but he wasn’t certain where she was now.
After that he’d seek out the oldest members of the staff to see if any of them recalled that night so many years ago. There, something he could accomplish. A few tasks to do rather than sit and mull over Sean’s confession. Anything but think about the future he wouldn’t have.
Gordon was sitting on the end of the dock, just as he had so many times in the past when she’d met him here. Once in a while she’d threatened to push him off the end of the dock. Once he’d done the exact same thing to her. Then he’d been so apologetic at her tears that he’d never done it again.
She’d gotten into trouble that day. It wasn’t her mother who’d chastised her for acting like a hoyden. It had been Ellen, who had been visiting.
“Whatever have you done, Jennifer?”
“We were playing,” she’d said.
That had not been enough of an explanation for her godmother.
“I don’t know what game you are playing, Jennifer Adaire, but you’ll soon be a young lady. You must remember your manners at all times. After all, you’re Lady Jennifer.”
That day had marked a change, not in Gordon’s treatment of her, but in her realization that they were growing up. There wouldn’t be too many more days like these in which they could play or meet each other to plot some way to avenge themselves on Harrison.
As she walked slowly to the dock, she wished that someone else could do this terrible duty. Yet there was no one close enough to Gordon. No one but her. She didn’t want to cause him pain, but she must, simply with the news she brought him.
At least she was here, to offer whatever comfort she could.
Gordon heard the tap of shoes on the dock and knew immediately who it was. He closed his eyes, wishing he had more time to prepare himself.
“Gordon.”
Had her voice always been that low and sensual?
“I’d like to be alone, Jennifer.”
“Then you know,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry, Gordon.”
He turned slightly, looking at her over his sho
ulder. “Know what?”
Know the secret that would forever separate them? Know the truth of his birth? Know that nothing would ever be the same again?
She startled him by kneeling on the dock, her arms reaching out to hug him. He stood, moving away from her before she could touch him.
“Gordon?” She remained on her knees looking up at him. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, but took several steps away from her.
She stood. “I’m so sorry, but at least you were able to see him before he died.”
“Sean’s dead?”
She nodded. He stared at the water, the surface of it brightly lit by the sun. A dozen thoughts cascaded into his mind, chief of which was the realization that he wouldn’t be able to get a witness to Sean’s revelations. No one but him would hear the story of Betty’s perfidy.
“Gordon?”
She was too damn close. He couldn’t bear to smell her perfume, see the tears welling in her eyes, or her face melting into a look of compassion. He could only tolerate so much, and he’d reached his limit.
When she would have reached out for him again, Gordon took another step back, almost as if he didn’t want her to touch him.
No doubt it was a reaction to the news she’d brought.
“I’ll come with you to see him.”
“No.”
That was a surprise.
“It’s all right. He looks like himself, only more peaceful and at rest.”
“Death does not imbue anyone with virtue, Jennifer. Sean is Sean whether alive or dead.”
He turned and started to walk away from her. He didn’t stop to apologize for his behavior. Nor did he offer any explanation for it. She could only assume that grief was causing him to act as if they were strangers to each other, that they hadn’t declared their love for one another just yesterday.
Later, after he’d had time to adjust to the news of Sean’s death, she knew he would come to her. Until then, she’d wait.
