by Charles Todd
“Yes, of course, you were bound to be hardheaded, like Francis. I’ve got this—and this—” She took several papers out of the slender purse she carried. They were documents signed by the vicar of a church in Gloucestershire, one giving the date of Francesca’s birth and the names with which she was christened. The entry from a parish record book had been copied as well.
“These are forgeries. I was born in Canada.”
“That’s only what everyone was told. When I grew tired of being tucked away out of sight—and so far from London!—he agreed to take you and set me free. You became the pathetic orphan from Canada. A pretty child, with those lovely eyes, and a sweet nature. Still, there’s more of Francis in you than of me. Just as Richard is more like Tom. Did you kill him, at the end? I would have done, rather than watch him lie there in a stupor, scarcely able to lift a hand!”
Francesca’s face flamed. “I won’t listen to any more of this!”
“We must all pay a price for what we want. Which brings me back to the reason I came here.” Glancing at the watch pinned to her lapel, she rose up. “I must go. I’d rather not encounter Mrs. Lane on the drive. She’s a gossip—my visit would be all over Hurley before the day was out. And I don’t think you would care for that. I know Richard wouldn’t.”
Glancing around the room, she smiled again. “It was really quite fortunate that those wretched boys died in France. Or this house wouldn’t be yours. It will console you for losing Richard. I met one of the cousins, by the way. Frederick Louis Talbot Hatton, he called himself. He had good reason to remember me. I’d written to Francis, asking him to meet me in London, and he never came. I was forced to travel down here, and in the end, to make him come out of his lair and speak with me, I had to frighten the child. He ran home, screaming, and Francis came storming out the gates to avenge him. He accused me of cruelty, but it was his fault, not mine. I wondered, afterward, if the burn healed or if Frederick carried the scar to his grave.”
Francesca stared at her in disgust.
She was beginning to take the measure of her uninvited guest, who used shock and a cool urbanity to throw a younger, less sophisticated woman off guard. But behind that seemingly impervious facade was something else.
Certainly not the ferocious hatred of Alasdair MacPherson . . .
Then—what?
As she reached for her crutches, Francesca said, “Did you send those letters to me? And the telegram to Richard when I was injured? How do you know so much about this Valley?”
“I bribe the carters who come through here. Nobody pays much heed to them. And they collect gossip at every stop. It’s how I intercepted Matron’s message to your housekeeper.”
Francesca answered thoughtfully, “I was afraid of your father physically. Yes, I did go to see him! The carters couldn’t tell you that, could they? And if he’d had the strength, he’d have taken his cane to any Hatton who crossed his threshold, including me. I don’t think violence would satisfy you—you much prefer to let your victims suffer. Alasdair MacPherson is filled with anger, a long-standing, bitter wrath bordering on madness. On the other hand, you’re eaten up with jealousy, and it’s filled you with cruelty. You always wanted to be mistress here, didn’t you? To prove Francis loved you. What stood in your way? Was it me?”
Something flared briefly in the blue eyes so like her son’s and then was gone. “I don’t feel very motherly, so you needn’t worry about my visiting often. But it’s important not to allow what standards we do possess to slide. Don’t marry Richard—it just won’t do, my dear.” There was a threatening note in her voice.
She opened the door and went gracefully through it. Not a beautiful woman but one who riveted attention. Francesca felt gauche in her presence, overshadowed by something she couldn’t define. But a man could—
“I won’t be staying in Hurley, of course. I’d rather not run into Richard. And if you’re wise, you won’t tell him I called. It will only upset him. And it could very well kill my father. Not that I care; he spent enough money searching for me, and there were times when he came precariously close to finding me. I think the only person I ever truly cared about was Francis Hatton. You didn’t know him then—”
And she was gone, heels clicking across the hall floor.
Francesca could only stand there, staring at her empty chair.
Leaning heavily on her crutches, Francesca took stock.
If Victoria was still alive, her grandfather couldn’t have murdered her! It was such an overwhelming relief, she felt light-headed.
On the heels of relief came despair. If Victoria was telling the truth about her passionate affair with Francis Hatton after her disappearance, it would be impossible for any marriage to take place. And that would mean giving up Richard—
She tried to think. How could Victoria be alive? When all the searchers had failed to find her? Yet Francesca had sent Richard to tell his grandfather about his marriage. Was this Alasdair MacPherson’s revenge? Had he found an actress, well tutored, superbly trained—and instructed to put up the one objection to a wedding that Francesca dared not ignore?
That she would be marrying her half brother . . .
MacPherson’s thirst for vengeance went deep, and it respected no rules.
And such a ruse was damnably clever—
But as a little of Francesca’s shock faded, she remembered the miniature in Richard Leighton’s pocket watch . . .
And it was very like the woman who had sat in this room not five minutes before!
How—on such short notice—could MacPherson have managed to find someone with the same bone structure, the same expression in the eyes? That same cool audacity? And the unmatchable—coloring—stature—manner.
The truth was, he couldn’t have done.
She had to be real!
And if Victoria was real, what shall I do without Richard?
Francesca sat down in the nearest chair, and looked into the bleak future that had just been handed her.
I wish the rector was here—
Then she realized that he couldn’t possibly see this nightmare in the same way she did. For one thing, he hadn’t felt the personal assault of Alasdair MacPherson’s anger. He hadn’t listened to Victoria Leighton’s callous references to her son or to Freddy. He hadn’t heard the woman’s casual announcement that she was Francesca’s mother.
Stevens would insist that Richard be told—whatever the cost. To the rector, truth was more important than its impact.
But I can’t let him tell Richard! I can’t let his faith in his mother’s goodness be destroyed. He’s dying—and he’s found a measure of peace, now. I’d rather walk away from the wedding myself—tell him I don’t love him after all.
Yet if I do that—am I any better than Victoria, deserting him at eight?
What am I going to do!
She’s a woman with no scruples—no shame. She’ll stand in the back of the church and tell everyone whatever she wants to tell them, and there’s nothing I can do about it! Richard will be shamed—I’ll be shamed. And I can’t even guess why she’d go to such lengths. Why is she willing to come back to life—why should we even matter to her now?
There’s no way I can prove I’m not her daughter! Not with a war on—
I’d have to travel to Canada. And by the time I could reach Devon again, who will believe me? My word against hers?
Francesca said aloud, “I’m afraid of her alive just as much as I feared her dead!”
And was Victoria Leighton counting on that very fear to keep Francesca’s mouth shut?
What had happened between this woman and Francis Hatton?
Even the old rector, Chatham, had read guilt in her grandfather’s reaction to Victoria Leighton’s disappearance. For months afterward, he’d been a hollow man.
But in the end, had he overcome his scruples and gone to her, in lust if not in love?
Francesca was slowly beginning to realize that the identity of the woman who had come to River�
�s End in the rolling morning fog wasn’t really the issue. It was how much of the real truth she had told.
Miss Trotter peered into the drawing room. “I heard the door shut behind her. And good riddance, I’d say!”
Francesca looked up. “Why did you ask me to send her away without speaking to her?”
“I told you, there doesn’t have to be a reason, Miss Francesca. It’s in here.” And she touched her chest with one blue-veined hand. “It’s just a sense I have sometimes. Down deep inside. And that one’s trouble. Twisted.”
“But you must have seen her before—she knew my grandfather,” Francesca argued. “Now she calls herself Alice Woodward, but she’s really Victoria Leighton. So she says. And I can’t ask Richard if she’s telling the truth!”
“Mr. Leighton’s dead mother? God help us, Miss Francesca, if he ever comes to hear of this—it will kill him, Miss! I told you, he revered her so—he’ll blame you and not her, she’ll see to that!”
She was remembering something else. “Freddy—when he was small, did someone hurt him? Frighten him badly?”
“What kind of hurt?”
“I don’t—no, she said a burn. It must have been a burn.”
“One morning he’d disobeyed the rules and slipped away to play by the river. I never knew the whole story. He was too frightened to tell anyone. You were playing at Joan of Arc in the garden . . .”
Uncertain, Francesca shook her head. “I wish I knew—” She rubbed her left arm, where the skin tingled. “You mustn’t say anything—not to anyone!”
Why would Victoria Leighton want to stop her wedding?
Even if the story was true, why should her son’s marriage mean anything to her? She had cared nothing about him for most of his life!
And then Mrs. Lane arrived, complaining of the fog, and how she would have sworn she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves passing by the gates, as she crossed the bridge.
CHAPTER 34
When Mrs. Lane settled to her work and Miss Trotter had walked down the hill to her cottage, Francesca went out to the Murder Stone and lowered herself to the wet grass.
She kept coming back to something else Mr. Chatham had said. “If you marry her son, it would be—a travesty. I beg you—!”
Not a proper marriage . . .
Why wouldn’t he come straight out and tell her the truth, if he knew she was Richard Leighton’s half sister—Francis Hatton’s bastard—? Why had his distaste outweighed duty?
Was it also true that the cousins were adopted—?
The questions tore at the fabric of Francesca’s belief in herself, her childhood, her family. Everything that mattered—that she had cherished. She didn’t want Francis Hatton to be her father—he was her grandfather, always had been!
How much did she dare believe? How much did she dare ignore?
There was another explanation: that Victoria Leighton didn’t care for any relationship between Francesca and her son, incestuous or not.
“I’m broad-minded, but even I have my limits.”
And that made no sense, either. One didn’t abandon a child and then feel a sudden responsibility for his choice of bride!
No, it came down to stopping the wedding. To preventing Francesca from marrying a man she loved: It was her happiness that Victoria Leighton resented—and she was prepared to sacrifice her son to harm Francesca.
But why? Why should it matter so much to Victoria that she would willingly come out of the shadows?
And how could her grandfather have refused to tell Victoria’s family that she was still alive? Why had he left them to years of uncertainty and grief?
Unless he had believed that a much-loved wife and mother dead was the lesser anguish.
This was not something she dared discuss with anyone. Not until she understood what harm any revelation might do.
Once more she was truly alone.
When Richard came, the mists had vanished in the sunlight like wraiths. He had seen Mrs. Passmore to the train. Now he sat down in the chair near the bed where Francesca lay resting, and said, “God, I’m tired! The fog lasted nearly to Exeter. I think my back has come to know every rut in the road—every rock—every depression. She’s on her way; she’ll be all right.”
“I’m glad. Richard. I’d like to ask you something. Just for the sake of argument! I couldn’t sleep last night— I—was thinking about your mother.”
“Let’s not talk about her. We’ve agreed: The past is the past. Let it go.”
“But how would you feel if you discovered she was still alive?”
He answered pensively, “Even after all these years I’d almost say that it would hurt more to know that she’d deserted us, than to believe she was dead.” He considered that for a moment. “If my mother was still alive, I’d have known it—and all I’ve felt since the day she walked out the door has been . . . emptiness.” He roused himself to smile. “A morbid subject for a fair morning. Is it the shooter who is troubling you? He’s in good hands! Stevens will look after him. He’s used to the way the military works.”
“Perhaps that’s it. The shooter.” Even as she spoke the words, she could hear how false they sounded.
He took her hand in his. “Something is wrong. Do you miss London? Do you want me to take you there?”
She shook her head vehemently. London was Victoria’s city—“I don’t think I could bear to go back now. I belong here, I always have. Miss Trotter is right, it took a broken limb to open my eyes. It was only a sense of duty that made me volunteer in the first place.” And that was only partly true. She’d gone to London not only out of a sense of duty but to watch the trains of the wounded for her cousins. To help and comfort them. And they’d never come home after all.
Richard kissed the fingers of her hand, one by one. “I thought perhaps you preferred the house in Essex.”
“No!” she said too quickly. And then she added, “Perhaps someday we’ll visit for a week—who knows? I’ll be safe here at River’s End.”
“Francesca. What is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid to be happy—I’ve lost everyone; I’m terrified I’ll lose you!”
“How can you lose me?”
But she was unable to tell him that.
When Stevens returned from Hampshire, he came to see Francesca as soon as he’d stopped at the Rectory for a list of pastoral calls collected in his absence.
He said, settling into the chair by the hearth, “I think we’ve missed Saint Martin’s summer. It’s getting colder, not warmer.”
“What happened at the hospital?”
“They were glad to get the poor devil back again. But there are so many men in need of help and only a handful of doctors. I spoke to Matron about private care. She felt his record of escape might preclude that. I told her I’d cover any charges, and gave her the name of your solicitor. She’ll see what she can do.”
“Did he remember anything while you were with him? His name? Where he’d fought? What he’d done in the war?”
“I don’t think he spoke a dozen words, all told. And there were always other people about. Francesca, don’t pin your hopes on this man. He’s very ill, and it may be months before good care can break through the shadows in his mind. It may be years.”
“If he’s one of the cousins,” she said, “then it must be Peter. He’s the only one with my grandfather’s green eyes—”
“You know I hope for your sake it’s true. But you must be prepared if it turns out he’s someone else. Be ready to step away gracefully.” His eyes probed her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Inactivity,” she lied. “I’m tired of these splints, I’m tired of those crutches, I want to be whole again.”
“Patience!” he chided, as if to a child. Then he added, “Leighton left a message at the Rectory. He’s eager to set a date for the wedding. Francesca, are you sure you’re doing the wise thing, here?”
Alas, she was not.
Then she heard herself say, “The
sooner the better. For both our sakes. There’ll be no finery. Not with the war—and I’m in mourning. As I remember, my grandmother’s bridal veil is in one of the trunks upstairs. That will have to do. I won’t wait until I can travel to London to look through the shops. Still—I’d like very much to walk down to the altar under my own power. Perhaps you can suggest that to Dr. Nealy. He’ll never listen to me—” She was babbling, and caught herself.
I’ll go through with the wedding! What can she do to stop me? I don’t believe her—I won’t believe her. She has no right to do this to her son!
And on the heels of that a certainty: She must never know how much I’ve come to love him—she’ll use it against me!
“If that’s what you wish. Would you prefer to have Mr. Chatham officiate—”
Not Chatham, please God, no! “I should like it to be you. If you will.”
But she had the feeling he wanted no part in the ceremony.
“Promise me?” she heard herself plead.
“I promise,” he said, this time with resignation.
And then he was gone to make his rounds.
In the week that followed, Francesca spent more time in the chilly room where her grandfather had died than she did in the sitting room. In her hands she clasped the leather-bound book of Latin poems. As if to summon the dead back to a time of living.
Mrs. Lane remonstrated, then laid a fire there every morning.
It was a struggle climbing the stairs each day, but she needed the comfort she hoped the room could give her. If her grandfather’s spirit had walked, she would have welcomed it to question it. But whatever was left behind after his death, that presence, that force, it was unreachable.
Even the Murder Stone seemed lifeless and cold. As if it knew it was destined for Scotland, and why.
“For a great curse has been laid upon my house—”
Francesca couldn’t stop that cool, clear voice echoing in her head.
